


House of Mirrors

by WintersEve



Series: A Descent Into Madness [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Again I Don't Own Gotham but I Have Just as Many Plotholes, Almost Crack But Not Quite, Bruce is the Joker, Dark Bruce Wayne, Humor, I miss Alfred, Inspired by a Comment on My Last Work, Jerome/Jeremiah team up, M/M, Mild Angst, No Man's Land, Questionable Motives, Season 5 timeline roughly, They Both Want to be Bad Cop and Have to Realize it Doesn't Work That Way, This is Basically a Bad Cop Show, Valeska Twins Dominate Gotham City, if that doesn't make sense go read Prison, this is either the best thing i've created or the worst, unfortunately we're gonna have to go sans Jeremiah tunnel, yes I'm still slipping in Nygmobblepot watch me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2019-10-30 20:38:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17835785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WintersEve/pseuds/WintersEve
Summary: In a world where Bruce Wayne has lost his mind, Gotham City is in ruins and isolated from the outside world, and someone had the nerve to resurrect Jerome and Jeremiah Valeska in the middle of all this chaos. To top it all off, the greatest threat in the city is none other than Bruce himself. Well, the two craziest twins in Gotham have been tasked with fixing that little problem. There's one issue however: Jerome and Jeremiah are both madly in love with Bruce and can't stand the sight of each other. And now they're expected to team up to bring him back to sanity. Let's hope Jerome remembers to bring his kazoo, because it's going to be a long ride.





	1. Wake Up

Anyone who’s been around in Gotham for about six months is well aware of its apparent disregard for the laws of nature. After the whole Indian Hill situation with dozens of resurrected and genetically modified psychotic criminals running up and down the streets, one would think the residents would’ve promptly moved away. Far away. Instead, they all just threw their hands up in resignation and wandered boredly about the chaos. Oh, and elected a known mob-boss as mayor. Maybe it was something in the water? Either way, gotta love Gothamites.

But this latest scandal caused quite a stir even amongst them. Most of the subsequent resurrections had drifted under the radar of the average citizen (ex: Butch Gilzean, Lee Thompkins, Ed Nygma). After all, one has to be aware of their deaths to even realize they’ve been brought back to life. However, the deaths of Jerome and Jeremiah Valeska had been widely publicized once the press got wind that the two menaces had even passed. The former had terrorized the city off and on for three years and the latter was the culprit of the dire situation they were in now. Except Jeremiah’s body had been two months cold by the time it was discovered, and both had been rather viciously lacerated. So it was a bit of a shock to everyone, including themselves, when they just woke up six months after their deaths.

 

_ (Jerome’s POV) _

Jerome was cold. Very cold. Freeze your tits off cold. Disregarding the notion that he didn’t  _ have _ tits, he sat up. Or at least, attempted to sit up. Unfortunately, all sense of mobility had seemed to just abandon his body. Okay, baby steps. He experimentally tried to flex his fingers. Nothing. Wherever he was, it was absolutely pitch dark. Or perhaps his eyes simply weren’t open. Yeah, that was it.

One blink and light flooded back into his world. Harsh, industrial, blue-white beams that did nothing to ease the growing pain in his skull. The ceiling above him was stark white and smooth. Jerome hadn’t yet figured out how to turn his head, but from his periphery he could see a similar wall to his right and another figure laying down to his left. The room had no windows, and the far door was also a blank white. It had some fancy lock on it that Jerome somehow knew was put there just for him. Didn’t he feel special.

Another hesitant attempt at moving his fingers. If this one didn’t work, he was going to have a very serious talk with his nervous system. He was rewarded with a twitch of his index finger. Thank god, he really didn’t want to have that conversation. Some more coaxing, and soon he could bend and move the appendages with full mobility.

“ _ Ouch _ ,” came a very disgruntled and raspy voice to his left. Whoever it was needed a glass of water. He tried to turn his head to get a proper look at the source, but finally came to the realization that his neck was in a full brace. He chuckled at his cluelessness, but the sound refused to come. Instead, he just produced a dry wispy sound. Damn, apparently he needed a glass of water too.

The door issued a soft beeping noise, and was pulled open by a woman clad all in white. They must have a theme around here. She darted in, lifting a paper cup to his lips. Cool water trickled down his throat, easing some of the Sahara-reminiscent qualities. The nurse then did the same for the person next to him. Returning to the door and holding it, she bowed nervously and avoided looking in Jerome’s direction. An older man in a crisp black suit walked past her into the room, nodding at her to shut the door.

“I see you’re both awake. Good. I wouldn’t want to have to give you the same dull information twice. My name is John Wycliffe.”

“Jerome Valeska. I’d shake your hand but I don’t know how to move my body so I’ll make sure to give ya a nice firm one later.” The words managed to leave his mouth this time, but they were still hushed.

“It’s an honor, Jerome. And you?” he asked, turning to the other bed.

“Would very much like to return to a state of nonexistence, thank you,” whispered the other person who somehow seemed to still come across as pretentious.

“My apologies, Jeremiah. I’m afraid that’s not an option.”

At the mention of his twin’s name Jerome let out a very eloquent “ _ Oh fuck me _ .”

This apparently very cruel man gave him a kind smile. “I regret to inform you that your request is  _ also _ not an option. Though for different reasons.”

“What, gingers not your type?” he asked, relying on the classic to hold the conversation while he mentally catalogued objects in the room that could be used to bash his brother’s skull in. The vase of daisies was looking like a pretty swell choice.

“I don’t sleep with business partners,” John said with a humorous air. A flicker of respect for this man flared in Jerome. A flicker.

“Business partners?” inquired Jeremiah, always the one to catch the little details Jerome missed.

“Well, hopefully soon-to-be. I have a proposition for both of you; that’s why I’m here.” John sat himself on the only chair in the room, facing the two Valeskas.

“You must be rather desperate for us to say yes to your proposition if you brought us back from the dead,” noted his brother.

John crossed his ankles, or at least that’s what it looked like from Jerome’s angle, and responded, “My...corporation and I find ourselves in a particularly precarious situation. One that the two of you have the best shot at resolving.”

“I’m not much of a resolver. I prefer to put particularly precarious situations into motion and perpetrate their prevalence.”

Jerome let out a dry laugh. “Try sayin’ that five times fast.”

“I understand both of your dispositions.”

“Well that’s new. No one ever quite understands my brand of crazy. It’s always nice to meet a man who’s done his homework and garnered a real appreciation for visionaries.”

“However,” continued John as if he hadn’t heard Jerome (how insensitive), “I ask that you hear me out, at the very least. You may be interested in what I have to offer.”

“Shoot then, Mark Cuban.” John didn’t seem to find the name funny. Alright, apparently this guy wasn’t a big Shark Tank fan. They’d always show the stupid thing in Arkham and it seemed to have intruded into Jerome’s subconscious. Of course  _ that _ would be his first returning memory.

“Something sinister has taken hold of Gotham. A force we aren’t equipped to handle. No matter how much information we gather on this person, they continue to outwit and perplex us. They excel at concocting cruel punishments and torments for the citizens for seemingly no reason other than to show us they can. Often their methods are twisted and unorthodox, but they’ve become increasingly unsettling. Their recent stunts seem to indicate a desire for widespread anarchy and the decimation of every political office, court of law, and enforcement facility in Gotham.” John met each pair of eyes with calm confidence, but the twins could tell he was disturbed by the news he was giving.

“And where exactly do we fit into the lovely little picture you’ve just painted?” Jeremiah addressed John skeptically, unbothered by what he was just told. 

Jerome however, was pissed. Those were  _ his _ plans that asshole was putting into play. His ideas. Hell, widespread anarchy and the absolute burning to the ground of authority was his cult’s manifesto.

“You two are the only people in Gotham who stand even a chance of persuading them out of their madness,” John stated simply.

“Well perhaps if you stopped dancing around the name of this mysterious  _ Them _ , we’d be a bit more willing to hear the rest of your story,” Jerome finally suggested.

“The public knows him as the Joker. Those of us who’ve been studying this case for awhile know him as Bruce Wayne.”

The effect was instantaneous. Both boys tried to sit up once again, but were held back by their matching neck braces and unresponsive bodies. The most Jerome could do was tap his fingers impatiently.

Jeremiah sighed dramatically from his bed. “I knew something was off when he impaled me with that teapot.”

He couldn’t help the snort that escaped him. “He impaled you with a teapot? I suddenly remember why I like the guy so much.”

Jerome could feel the icy glare coming from his left. “Only because you forced me to slit your throat. He was surprisingly more emotionally distraught than I’d anticipated.”

“Oh yes because I just waltzed up to you in that parking lot and asked “‘Sup bro, I know we’ve been on shitty terms lately but could you do a brother a favor and behead me? I owe ya.’”

“Stop being so dramatic. Perhaps it didn’t happen exactly like that, but your actions certainly forced my hand.”

“Actually, I think your muscles did that, not that you have many.”

John (my, weren’t there a lot of J names present?) cleared his throat. “May we get back to the matter at hand?” Neither boy responded, still fuming about their side of the argument. “I need the two of you to find a way to get along so you can find Bruce and restore him to a stable mental state. I understand that you’re siblings, and siblings quarrel, but please, Gotham needs you.”

“Do most siblings quarrel with knives and chemicals?” Jerome asked out of curiosity.

“Yes, stab wounds and toxic compounds are administered between brothers commonly between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two,” Jeremiah responded sardonically.

“Shut up dip-shit, I wasn’t asking you.”

“He’s talking about Bruce and _ I _ actually care, so if you could keep your own mouth shut for one moment, it’d be greatly appreciated.”

Jeremiah received an inclination of John’s head. “Thank you, Jeremiah. I’m just going to run through a quick brief on his current case and then I’ll give you some information about what exactly it is you’ll be doing.”

“I always looked forward to the day when Brucie would have his own casefile. Admittedly, this is not how that day went in my fantasies.” Yes, Jerome’s interjections were still important to this discussion.

“His first act of crime was a large-scale bank robbery cleverly organized and executed. The second was a kidnapping and morbid exhibition of several GCPD officers. The third was the beheading and subsequent mailing of said heads of an entire street devoted to political authorities. The fourth was an infiltration of Gotham General, one of the few still functioning facilities, that resulted in the poisoning of an entire ward, all of whom are currently being treated for psychosis. The fifth and most recent involved the destruction of the northern sector, which is now a toxic wasteland.”

Jerome attempted to let out a long whistle. The result was him blowing noiselessly on the ceiling. “Are ya sure that’s Brucie? Because it sure doesn’t sound like him.”

“Despite the desire for bloodlust one must possess to execute crimes such as these, I believe the man. These acts are reminiscent of the Bruce that caused my unfortunate demise,” Jeremiah responded.

“Yes, something seems to have innately switched within Bruce Wayne. He’s no longer the benevolent billionaire philanthropist teenager Gotham knew and loved.”

“ _ Some _ of Gotham,” coughed Jerome.

John shot him a glare. “People only started hunting him after you set an example.”

“Bullshit, but that’s fine. I’m not above taking credit for trends I didn’t start.”

“Once again, Jerome has succeeded in driving you off topic. Clearly he’s dealing with some repressed trauma regarding his past encounters with Bruce. I, however, am fully equipped to handle this situation and take care of Bruce. So if you’d be so kind as to tell me exactly  _ how _ I’m supposed to restore his prior sweet and gentle state, it’d be greatly appreciated.” The superiority oozing from Jeremiah made Jerome want to stuff the aforementioned daisies through his teapot hole and see if he could sell it as modern art.

“Sweet and gentle my ass,” was all Jerome commented.

John ignored him once more, brandishing a manilla folder. “I have Bruce’s file here. Once you’re both on your feet and capable of using your limbs, please look through it carefully. I’ll be honest with you, it took us two months to even figure out that the Joker was Bruce Wayne. Any information we have past that point is tentative, and it’s a miracle we even have that much.” He sighed with a shrug. “The kid is clean, he knows what he’s doing. Every trace of evidence he leaves behind is most likely left on purpose. He enjoys messing with the GCPD, but he hates my corporation even more. It’ll be a relief, to say the least, when he’s off the streets.”

For some reason, Jerome didn’t like the way he said that. “What will happen to Bruce after we find him?”

The older man just smiled at him. “That depends on how you handle the situation, Jerome.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a gamble I’m willing to take, John. Because the way I see it, he may be bonkers, but he’s alive. And I have this odd feeling that if we were to give him to you, that second trait might just disappear.”

“Trust me when I say that we need Bruce alive. His file will give you some more information on that topic, however.”

“How long must we wait for our bodies to heal?” Jeremiah inquired.

“Well, normally it would take about six months to get you back in working order. But because you two are a special case, we’ve hired Hugo Strange to rapidly accelerate the healing process. We were already paying him to resurrect you; speeding up your recovery just made sense. At this rate, you should be good as new in two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” Jerome and Jeremiah stuttered simultaneously.

“I thought you wanted us to solve this conundrum  _ now _ ,” Jeremiah added.

“If you can find a way to get yourself out of this bed and even across the room then please, be my guest,” John said skeptically.

The stretch of silence that followed seemed to indicate that his brother couldn’t, in fact, get himself up. Actually maybe that wasn’t the right way to phrase that. Oh well, Jerome had already thought it, and he wasn’t changing his internal narration now.

“So I suppose I’ll hear from you boys again in two weeks. Oh, and before I forget, the nurse has all of your known possessions. At least, the ones we thought you might want. Just ask for them before you leave.” John Wycliffe stood up from his metal chair. “ It’s been lovely.” He gave them the lamest bow, and left the room, gently shutting the stark door behind him.

“Oh I hope he found my kazoo,” Jerome stated with a grin.

Beside him his brother audibly groaned. “This is going to be an excruciating fortnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have the first chapter of my new little project. Don't worry, I have two others running right now in case this continuation isn't your cup of tea, but this is the only one Jerome will feature in so if you want more of him, be sure to check up here. Please leave any comments and critique, y'all already know I love it.


	2. A Question of Authority

_(Jerome’s POV)_

Two weeks later, both Valeska boys were back on their feet. Or to be more precise, Jerome was composing a Queen medley on kazoo and Jeremiah was staring intently at himself in the bathroom mirror.

“I think I need to fix it,” Jeremiah whispered, still making strangely intense eye contact with his reflection.

“Fix what? Your face?” Jerome suggested.

“Yes, actually. I look like the lovechild of the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man and Queen Elizabeth II. And you have absolutely no right to make jokes; you’re the one who ruined my stellar complection.”

“I did you a favor. Before you just looked like a lizard man. At least now you’re a queen. And tasty.” The nurse chose that moment to knock hesitantly on their door. Apparently she was still terrified of them. Jerome wasn’t quite sure why; they’d been nothing but pleasant since their imprisonment recovery.

“Come in,” Jeremiah sighed, stepping away from the mirror and reentering the main room.

The nurse (Jerome still didn’t know her name) set down a canvas bag on the desk and handed Jeremiah a flip phone. She withdrew from the room just as quickly as she’d entered.

“Hello?” Jeremiah asked into the receiver. “Yes, speaking... Excellent...Noted, thank you...Certainly, we’ll examine it right now...Mhm...Understood...Wonderful...You too.”

“Well that was engaging. I can’t wait for the next episode.”

His brother rolled his eyes and walked over to the desk where the nurse had set the bag, apparently not bothering to tell him what the call was all about. Jeremiah carefully removed the contents one by one, laying them out by size. Maybe him and Bruce bonded over their OCD and that’s why they got along so well.

The first two things were stacks of clothes for the boys. Jeremiah got a whole goddamn three piece suit and all he got was a black and grey flannel button up and black jeans. At least they had the decency to throw in a grey scarf. Color coordination is important. So is accessorizing.

“Look, even that Wycliffe guy knows you’re a pretentious asshole,” Jerome said, gleefully pointing at the stupid indigo and crimson suit.

Jeremiah, however, was in love. He was caressing the fabric and talking about designers or some gay shit, Jerome didn’t know. He was interested in the next item: the folder John had teased them with during his visit.

Flipping through it, he became more and more disturbed. Some of these crimes fell into territory Jerome wouldn’t even dare to touch. The idea that Bruce _would_ just felt wrong. And the guy in the photos barely looked like Bruce. Given, they were low resolution and taken at awkward angles. But even the basic physiology was wrong. If someone had put these in front of Jerome seven months ago, before he spent every waking moment with Bruce, he would’ve said they looked like his brother post-crazy gas, but actually attractive. His skin was drained of color; his lips were a deep currant red. His eyes were now flecked with blue, and finely lined with black. Basically, the only thing reminiscent of his Bruce were the dark curls still crowning his head, although they were wildly arranged now.

“Stop orgasming over cotton and come look at this,” Jerome called over to Jeremiah.

“It’s not cotton, it’s-” started his twin before seeing the photos. “Oh. Oh my. Is that…?”

“Yes.”

“He’s…”

“Beautiful?” Jerome suggested.

“...different,” was all Jeremiah would admit.

“Pretty fucking different based on some of these reports. Flip through these and tell me if any of that sounds remotely like Bruce Wayne.” He tossed the folder to his brother, who looked through its contents, occasionally uttering surprised gasps or chuckles. Jerome couldn’t blame him; some of that shit was twisted but he’d be a liar if he’d said it wasn’t funny.

“Something is undoubtedly...off...about Bruce. And after my phone call with Wycliffe, it seems like repairing the damage is going to be much more difficult than I’d anticipated.” Jeremiah set the folder gently down on his bed and grabbed two things from the desk.

“Why’s that? And what’s that?” Jerome asked, indicating the smaller item his brother slipped into the pocket of the folded suit jacket.

“Apparently my little reconstruction project of Gotham was far greater reaching in its consequences than I’d anticipated. Based on Wycliffe’s information, the city has become torn apart and gang-ridden. There is no government, and the police force is functioning at a tenth of its officer count. And _that_ was a keycard to Wayne Enterprises; it may be convenient to have on hand.”

“I hate to admit it, but you did succeed in plunging Gotham into a state of total anarchy. That’s impressive.” Jerome pulled his black and grey flannel over his standard-issue white t-shirt, and slid off the matching cotton pants.

“Could you at least wait until I’m out of the room before you strip like someone’s paying you?” Jeremiah huffed, shutting the bathroom door.

“WE. ARE. TWINS. WE HAVE THE EXACT SAME ANATOMY,” Jerome shouted.

“That’s not how that works, you insolent buffoon,” he heard him mutter to the sink.

Twenty minutes passed before Jerome got sick of waiting. He wanted to go. Now. They had things to do. It was not the time for Jeremiah to take an extra long shit. Luckily for him, Strange didn’t trust them with a lock on their bathroom door so he just barged right in.

What he witnessed changed him forever.

There was Jeremiah, standing in front of the mirror. His brother. His only brother. His shut-in engineer brother. Doing his makeup.

Jeremiah glanced up and saw him gaping. “Do you think my eyebrows are even?”

“I _think_ something has gone terribly wrong. Strange messed with your mind. I don’t know who you are anymore. Someone is controlling you.”

“I told you I was going to fix it. I wasn’t joking.” He’d picked up a lip pencil and was coloring over the bright cherry that surrounded his mouth with a mahogany tone. Even his skin was smooth now. No wonder women and rave gays always looked so put together. They spent twenty minutes a day on this bullshit.

“Well hurry it up then. I want to go.” He dragged out the last syllable like an impatient child. “Oh, and your right eyebrow is higher than your left.” Jerome ducked out of the bathroom before his twin could hit him and started packing his things.

 

X.X

 

Needless to say, Jerome was less than pleased when Jeremiah informed him that they had to trek all the way to the GCPD from Tricorner, where Strange had built his hideout. The sun was setting by the time they made it. Between Jeremiah stopping to admire his work on the clocktower, Jerome wanting to stop the depressed looking civilians and ask if they played french horn, and their endless bickering, making it by sundown was a miracle.

Perhaps just waltzing in the front doors of the police department was a bad judgement call, but they didn’t really have a lot of options here. Sneaking in would just look even more suspicious. And so that’s exactly what the two boys did.

Jeremiah thrust open the doors and held them, taking care to trip Jerome on his way in. It was fine though; Jerome just turned the fall into a nice little sumersault, really topping off his grand entrance.

“Honey, I’m home!” he called out to the pitiful task force remaining in the building.

His brother just sat himself on an officer’s desk with an observant, “Seems as though they weren’t expecting us. How inconsiderate.” He wasn’t wrong. Not a single person had pulled a gun. They all just stared at them in blank shock.

“Aw come on, what’s wrong with you guys?” Jerome asked, looking around at the state of disarray the precinct was in. “No banners or bangs? Not even a cake? This is the worst ‘Welcome Back to Life’ party I’ve attended, and last time I woke up without a face.”

“I have less references on the subject than my dear brother here, but even I can tell the effort was lacking. Let’s try a little harder next time, shall we?” Jeremiah added, giving each stunned officer a look of pure disappointment.

“There won’t be a next time,” a stern voice from the balcony above answered them. “How about you just learn to stay dead?” Jim Gordon walked down the stairs towards them guardedly. The detective looked terrible. His face was haggard with exhaustion and he was significantly thinner than the last time Jerome had seen him. Harvey Bullock followed close behind, but said nothing.

Jerome stepped forward to meet Jim, giving him a long whistle. “Phew, time has not been kind to you, Jimbo. What happened? Why is everyone around here so grumpy?”

The police captain glared past Jerome to Jeremiah. “Why don’t you ask him?” he replied through gritted teeth.

With a tilt of his head and a sinister smile that rivaled his own, Jeremiah asked, “Whatever do you mean, detective? I’m a bit out of the loop; I have been _dead_ for the past six months, you see.”

A hand flashed out and grabbed Jeremiah by his tie, yanking him up to look Jim in the eyes. “Your little game with the bridges ended up plunging Gotham into a state of internal turmoil. We’re barely scraping by on our rations, half of the water supply has been tainted, my cops don’t have any ammo left, and Penguin has control of all the wealth and bullets in the city. The government has refused to send any help and has declared Gotham unworthy of relief because of the crime running rampant in the streets. They blame this mess on us, on _me_. And you, being the disgusting coward that you are, decided to disappear for six months leaving us to deal with the utter destruction you left behind.” Jim’s eyes were alight with rage and frustration.

“You’ve been holding that in for awhile, haven’t you? It’s okay, let it all out. You can cry if you want to,” Jerome offered, trying to be sensitive. They already knew most of this information from Wycliffe, but it was good to vent to someone. He attempted to pry Jim’s fingers away from his brother but thought better of it, retreating from the pair to give them space.

“Well I’ll admit, I didn’t plan on being stabbed to death. I’d wanted to watch what chaos ensued up close and personal, but _someone_ threw a wrench in my plans,” he heard Jeremiah say.

Jerome turned back to them, spreading his arms wide. “Actually, that’s what we’re here to discuss. I get it, you’re mad. Hell, I would be too! Jeremiah’s an asshole, we can all agree on this. But he’s here to make it up to you. We both are. Could we talk in your office, detective?”

The other police officers seemed uncomfortable. A few of them even pulled out knives and batons, eyeing Jeremiah nervously. Rude. Where was _his_ respect?

Jim thought about for a moment, still gripping Jeremiah tightly.

“Fine,” he said, releasing Jeremiah. “But my officers get to cuff you. Both of you. You won’t resist. Understood?”

Jerome opened his mouth to respond with a suggestive joke but Bullock beat him to it. “If I hear one word outta you about how much you’ve missed the feeling of metal around your wrists, I’m going to drag you out back and beat the ever-living shit out of you. The one good thing about all this? No one tellin’ me what I can and can’t do to scum like you. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Jerome responded with a grin, placing his wrists in front of him for the detective to cuff.

Up in Jim’s office, they sat and listened to what trials the city had undergone, how everyone was clinging to hope, blah blah blah. Jerome sort of zoned out and let Jeremiah listen patiently to whatever the police captain had to explain to them.

“What do you know about Bruce Wayne?” Jeremiah asked after Jim had finally finished speaking. That regained Jerome’s attention.

The detective seemed hesitant to answer. “I know lots of things about Bruce Wayne, I’ve known him since he was twelve. Why do you ask?”

“He means about Bruce _now_. What do you know?” Jerome interjected.

“I haven’t spoken to him since the day the bridges went down. You two were the last known people he was seen with.”

“Well clearly he’s not with us anymore. Where do you think he might be?” Jeremiah inquired.

Jim gave him another harsh stare. “Why the hell would I tell you that? I guarantee you’re the reason he’s gone missing.”

“Surprisingly enough, he sort of brought his absence upon himself,” his brother responded.

“Fucking liar,” Jerome muttered under his breath.

“Pardon me, what was that?” Jeremiah whispered maliciously.

“Hm? Oh nothing, just making sure our dear detective here has all the facts straight.”

“What do you mean, Jerome?” the police captain asked, now looking at him curiously.

“I _mean_ that if sweet little Jeremiah here hadn’t stabbed me in the throat, Brucie would be perfectly fine. In fact, he’d probably be right here, helping you out with this terrible mess as best he could. He always respected you, Jim.” Maybe he was trying to get on Jim’s good side just a little; he needed the man’s help and Jeremiah was clearly incapable of getting along with anyone.

Jim seemed taken aback by his kind words. “I...why did Jeremiah stab you in the throat?”

“Still here,” his brother pointed out.

“No one wants to hear what you have to say, so hush now. The adults are speaking,” Jerome responded, not sparing a glance for his twin. If he had, he would’ve been greeted by the most murderous stare to ever grace Jim Gordon’s office.

“I put a blade to Jerome’s throat because he’s a lunatic and a cold-blooded killer. He hurt someone very dear to me. I was simply showing him that his act wasn’t going unpunished.”

“Shame punishing me meant getting impaled with a teapot,” Jerome said with a smile.

“How did you impale him with a teapot if he slit your throat?” Jim asked, clearly confused.

“Could we forget the bloody teapot?” Jeremiah said through clenched teeth.

“Oh no, no, _I_ didn’t use the teapot. Bruce did,” he clarified.

Realization dawned across Jim’s face. “Oh, I see.”

“You see lots of thing now, don’t you, Jimbo? Light filterin’ in a bit? Events makin’ more sense?” Jerome asked, resting his chin on his cuffed hands.

“We suspected...something...but we couldn’t figure out what might have caused it.”

“True, how does one come to the conclusion of what drove Bruce Wayne to madness if both the bodies are buried, and the secret with them?” Jeremiah added, apparently calm now.

“So it really is Bruce?” Jim asked, fearing the answer.

“You mean is Bruce really the person behind half of your problems? Yeah, unfortunately,” Jerome said, passing him the casefile they got from John, taking care to unzip the bag slowly so the cop didn’t think he was pulling a gun on him.

The twins gave Jim a few moments to peruse its contents, avoiding each other’s eyes by examining the room with interest.

After about ten minutes of silence, Jim sighed and plopped the folder on the desk. “I was aware of most of these attacks, but I didn’t know the Joker had been behind all of them. Bruce, I mean. I also didn’t know that something had happened to the northern sector- I’ll have to send someone to look into that.”

“Speaking of, what exactly are all these sectors?” Jeremiah asked.

“Areas of Gotham that gangs and criminals have claimed as their territory. At first, we tried to drive them out and protect the residents. But there were too many and we were outmanned. Eventually we had to fall back here. Now Old Gotham is the only district we control.” Jim pushed some papers aside on his desk, revealing a map that had several areas labelled and circled.

The pair looked at it in fascination. Jim pointed out important territories to them, “Sirens have Upper Gotham Proper, but we have an alliance with them. Zsasz is in Little Italy, of course. Scarecrow has a tight hold on Otisburg; our men can’t even get through his section without gas masks. Firefly is next door in Crime Alley. Her neighbor is Victor Fries in Robbinsville; they don’t really get along.”

“Oh, I know,” Jerome murmured. He pointed to downtown, where they were. “What’s happening here?”

“Like I said, we’re holding Old Gotham. But, Penguin has all the surrounding districts: Fashion, Diamond, Financial, and most importantly City Hall, are all under his control.”

“We just came from Tricorner,” Jeremiah commented, indicating the lower left section of Gotham.

“That’s where Hugo Strange is hiding out; we stopped going there after stumbling upon some of his abominations.”

“Ouch,” Jerome said. “So where’s the northern sector? I’m not very good with directions.”

Jim pointed at Robbinsville once more. “That’s where Victor Fries is.”

Jerome furrowed his brow in confusion. “I know I just said I’m not good with directions, but that’s not very north. I mean, yes, it’s uptown, but Robbinsville is on the south end of it.”

“We don’t call it the northern sector because it’s far north. It’s just really fucking cold.”

“Wow, Jimbo, language, there are children present!” he exclaimed in shock, motioning to Jeremiah.

“It’s strange to refer to yourself in the third person, Jerome,” his brother stated, refusing to look at him. “What would be the fastest way to get there, detective?”

“I’d say drive, but only one person in Gotham has gas right now. And why would you need to go there? What’s this all about?”

Jeremiah and Jerome finally exchanged a look, trying to decide whether or not they should tell Jim what they were doing. Yes, they concluded. Yes they should.

“We’ve been employed to find Bruce and restore him to a stable mental state. How, exactly, we’re supposed to do that is unclear. But the first step is finding him, so that’s what we’re going to do. I’d carry out the task myself, but I have a feeling that I would just get another jugular incision if Jerome wasn’t present. His death was, after all, the catalyst of Bruce’s insanity. Or so we believe. And we need your help to find him.”

The police captain stared at them, evaluating his options. Jerome could guess what they were: detain the two of them in a holding cell while they continued running around like headless chickens (he’d be down for watching that), have Harvey take them both out back and shoot them (if Jerome was in Jim’s place, this is the option he would’ve elected for. Nice and clean), release them both but offer no help (why bother at that point?), or Option D, the choice the desperate man opted for.

Jim met Jerome’s eyes and folded his hands. “I don’t care who’s employed you. You’re alive again, and I’m tired of trying to change that. We need the Joker, Bruce, off the streets. He’s become a constant threat over our heads. If it wasn’t for him, we might’ve gotten the government to intervene by now. As it stands, however, he poses imminent and unpredictable danger to everyone in Gotham. It’s not my favorite idea, not by a long shot, but it’s the best one we have right now. I’ll give you the address of a contact of mine. She’s the one who’s currently your best bet for transportation. It’s still a ways to walk, but it’s better than nothing. Besides, you won’t make it in the northern district without a vehicle. Especially if Bruce has done something to it. I have one condition though.”

“How dramatic. Name it, Jim,” Jeremiah drawled, although he seemed almost excited by the “adventure” ahead of them.

“You have to report back here. Every day. Both of you. I’m going to lose enough respect from my officers just for letting you walk, especially you Jeremiah. But hopefully I can keep their trust by making it seem like you work for us.” Jim reached across his desk and unlocked each pair of handcuffs.

“We agree to your terms, Jimbo. I’ll even sign a contract if ya want. Oh, and I’m keeping these,” Jerome said, slipping his pair, along with Bruce’s file, into the canvas bag they’d received that morning.

“Any chance you’d like to equip us with something? For defense purposes, obviously,” Jeremiah asked with a smile.

“Not a chance in hell,” Jim responded with a matching smile. He passed Jerome a business card, and practically shoved them out of his office and out the front doors of the precinct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this one wasn't as exciting but I needed to set the stage a little for what's to come. Thank you to everyone who's already checked out this work, it means the world to me! If you're interested in seeing the map I had to make to figure all of the sectors out, feel free to check my tumblr @evelynsinkwell. We have a good time over there. I also love comments and critiques, so drop those if you'd like <3


	3. Wasteland

_ (Jeremiah’s POV) _

 

“My feet are killing me,” Jeremiah commented for the third time, now mostly just trying to see how much he could annoy his brother.

“More likely it’s going to be me killing you if you don’t shut up.” Ah, a pleasant reward.

They’d been walking for over an hour now, and the moon had risen to a sixth of its visible nightly cycle. Really, the most inconvenient result of his experiment was all of this transportation nonsense. His uncomfortable dress shoes only made him feel personally attacked by John Wycliffe, like the man had wanted him to suffer more.

“Tell me about Barbara,” he finally said as they approached the east side of Gotham Proper.

Jerome laughed. “She’s a fucking mess. Always has been. I don’t know, maybe she got her shit together since the last time I saw her, but I’m pretty sure she’s the kind of chick who’s always batshit crazy. She’s cruel, violent, easy to set off, and extremely petty. Her and Jim make a great couple, I really hope they get back together, if only so I can watch her absolutely destroy him.”

“She sounds lovely,” he responded, sarcasm dripping from his tone. “Why in the world would she help us?”

“Because she wants to get back into Jimbo’s good graces, and more importantly, his pants. She doesn’t have much to lose, either. It’s not like we want her nightclub. It might seem like a profitable gamble to her, which is exactly how Barbara works. I somehow have this feeling that acts of mass murder and thousands of starving people sorta put a damper on the whole partying mood. Just a guess, though.”

“Well, we’re here. Why don’t we found out for ourselves?” Jeremiah took care to check that his keycard was still tucked safely in his suit pocket before taking the elevator up to the penthouse lounge. His brother would accuse him of being sentimental, but Jeremiah’s few moments of clarity reminded him how much he valued his time with Bruce when everything was simple, and that card served as a constant reminder even when his scattered mind couldn’t do it for him.

Irritatingly simple muzak filled the small space, and Jerome’s out of tune whistling did nothing to help. “What do you think these are running on?” He didn’t really care, he just couldn’t stand the threatening normality of the situation.

“Giant hamsters they keep in the basement. Really makes those generators run.”

“Hm, odd. I was going to suggest child labor, but your answer is much less disheartening.” The elevator dinged open. “After you,” he offered with a sweeping gesture.

The immediate convergence of three assassins lent validity to his kindness. Jeremiah predicted something like that might happen. And his foresight served him well when all three women only restrained his brother before realizing that Jeremiah was also present.

One of the girls reached towards him but he grabbed her wrist with what he sincerely hoped was a friendly smile. “This fabric is rather expensive, love. I’d rather you not touch.”

She looked at him with such utter disgust and yanked her hand away, instead drawing a copper dagger. What did he do wrong?

“Lelia, let him be. I want to take care of this one personally.” A woman with short platinum blonde hair and stormy blue eyes was marching towards him. She seemed angry.

“That’s Barbara,” Jerome whispered unnecessarily, trying to point while currently in a fetal position on the floor.

“Ah, Barbara Kean, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I-” Barbara took his outstretched hand and yanked him closer to her, ramming a pistol against his sternum.

Her smile was perhaps more off-putting than either of the two Valeska boys’. It was feral in nature. “Didn’t think I’d be seein’ either of you two around here, but it’s Gotham, why did I expect anything less? You know, I swore that if you ever stepped foot in my territory, you’d be dead before you can start crying for your poor mutilated mommy. And this zone is strictly girls only. No men allowed. I know some people might say you look like a goth lesbian, but you just don’t quite make the cut.”

“Trust me, if I were a lesbian I’d have a much easier time understanding women,” Jeremiah said coolly, placing his hand gently over the top of hers as it rested on her gun. “As it stands, however, a male friend of yours recommended us to you after we expressed a need to get our hands on transportation.”

“I’m not running a goddamn charity here...which male friend?” Barbara’s gaze was darting between Jeremiah and Jerome, but she hadn’t loosened her grip on the pistol.

“James Gordon,” he said softly. “He’s decided to help us execute a rather...unique operation. For the good of Gotham, of course. You and I both know he only ever thinks of this wretched city. He’d put  _ anything _ on the line for it. But I’m sure you’re more than familiar with that...side of him.”

“Yes,” she whispered, an inch of pride creeping into her voice. “I’m very familiar with him.”

“But you see, he doesn’t want this operation to be vastly public. That’s why he sent us to you. James knows that he can trust you, especially during these trying times.” How easily a person in love could be manipulated. Jeremiah would know, after all.

“He said he trusts me?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Of course. You’re one of the few people left in Gotham who’s stood by the side of the GCPD, and particularly the side of Jim. He’d never forget an act as selfless as that.”

Barbara eventually lowered her weapon. “Well that good faith is sweet and all, but he seems to be forgetting who you are. You’re the reason we’re in this fucking disaster.” She peered over his shoulder. “Carrot top over there apparently agrees. How are you doing, Jerome? It’s been awhile.”

“Absolutely peachy,” his brother called from his headlock. “Got any ginger ale?”

The club owner seemed to struggling with something. She gave Jeremiah a stare that could’ve sliced lead before turning to the bar. “You may be my least favorite person in the city, Jeremiah, but I always had a soft spot for your brother. He was my only real friend in Arkham. Ladies, let him go.”

Jerome stood up, rubbing his shoulder. “Could you gals aim a little higher next time? There’s a pressure point on my neck I’ve been meaning to try out but I never worked up the _nerve_.” He reached for the shot of ginger ale Barbara slid across the bar. “Thanks Babs.”

“So,” she started. “Tell me more about this ‘secret mission’ you’re planning with Jim.”

“Won’t be a secret for long since we had to go involve him,” Jerome muttered, tipping back his glass. He looked at Jeremiah and then tapped the marble counter. “Barkeep, a drink for this guy too, if you’d be so kind. He’s more fun with a little somethin’ in him.”

Barbara just grinned at Jeremiah with her hands on her hips. “His options are bleach and rat poison! Which one you wanna try?”

“I don’t recall rodenticide being a liquid but I’m never one to turn down new experiences.” He hadn’t been expecting the blank stare he received but he shrugged and continued, “Gin and tonic is fine, thank you.”

“I...you know what? Fine.”

After making his drink, Barbara sat down on the patron side of the bar next to Jerome and sipped her own cocktail. “You two still haven’t told me what this is all about. And I’d be an idiot to help you without any kind of information as to what exactly I’m doing. So spill.”

“Anyone in particular causing you trouble, Barbara?” He might as well ask.

“Most of the trouble in Gotham has learned to stay out of my way.” Sure. Whatever fuels your ego.

“Not a single persisting issue?”

She raised an eyebrow. “No, now stop askin’.”

Jerome laughed. “Even I don’t buy that one, Babs, and I try to always believe in the impossible.”

“Because if that were true,” Jeremiah pressed, “you would be the only person in this city getting along so utterly swell.”

The sound of glass being slammed against the marble echoed throughout the empty club. “Alright, for god’s sake. Yes. I had a truckload of gasoline stolen last night. Last Tuesday somebody broke in and took one of my generators. And if I ever figure out  _ who _ , I’m going to papercut their eyes into cute little snowflakes.”

His brother whistled. “I might have to borrow that one. That’s good. Makes me feel all tingly.”

“Hm. Interesting. Any idea as to whom?” He gingerly plucked the lime from his drink and set it aside.

“I got a glimpse of the guy yesterday as I shot at him. And actually...I thought it was you. Don’t get me wrong; we all thought you were dead. But there was something about him. He was smaller than you though, thinner, and he had dark curly hair. Might’ve been the Joker. I don’t really care, I just want to make the asshole pay.”

Jeremiah felt his heart rate pick up. That had to be Bruce. It  _ had  _ to be. He had been close by. He’d been in this very building, only yesterday! “Is there any chance he’s still around?”

Barbara looked at him as if he were mad. “You think he’d just hang around here after stealing from me and nearly getting his spinal cord rearranged?”

“I certainly wouldn’t,” Jeremiah sighed, disappointed. “Still, it’s worth checking. Jerome, be a dear and keep Miss Kean company while I go survey the area, would you?”

To his surprise, his twin didn’t whine or argue about the allocation of tasks. “Of course. Her and I have a  _ lot _ of catching up to do.” What made him suddenly take on that tone?

Shrugging it off, Jeremiah walked across the room back to the elevator. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. If I’m not, assume I’ve been mutilated and eaten. Only avenge me if the heathens that claim my flesh decide against seasoning me with rosemary.”

The elevator dinged, and soon he was thrust back into the concrete wasteland.

 

… 

 

_ (Jerome’s POV) _

Barbara’s hand flashed out to the bar, but Jerome beat her to it. Twirling her pistol between his fingers, he purred “Predictable as ever, Babs. I thought maybe you’d learned a thing or two since the last time we talked.”

Yanking a knife from the rack at the bar, she pointed it at him and said “I’m not the same woman I was three years ago. Try me.”

“Don’t wave that thing around all willy nilly, doll. You might hurt yourself.”

“Maybe it’s time someone made you need a new set of stitches,” she snarled. “Should I even bother asking what the sudden change in attitude is about?”

He cocked his head to the side and rested his cheek on her pistol. “You know, I thought our time together was more memorable. But clearly, you don’t seem to remember a thing.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about that night, at the benefit. More specifically, I’m talking about you tipping Leslie Thompkins off to who we were and what we were doing. I get it, you needed to show off a bit. Ex-fiance of Jim Gordon flaunting everything she’s got in front of the new squeeze. But this sort of selfishness always ends up bitin’ the ginger magician in the ass, and somebody’s gotta raise public awareness to this pressing social issue!”Jerome grinned lazily. “Guess that’ll just have to be me.”

A click of her tongue. “A little late now, don’t you think?”

“If I hadn’t been so concerned with getting back at Brucie , you would’ve been my next target. After Jimbo, of course. He’s always got a reserved spot on my ‘To Splatter in New and Innovative Ways’ list.”

Barbara rolled her eyes. “Oh, what an honor. So what? You’re gonna shoot me?”

“Oh no. What do you take me for? I’m a visionary, Babs. I set the standard, others follow. That’s how this works.” He paused for dramatic effect. “I’m just gonna  _ convince _ ya to help us out. Because you and I both know you won’t. Not with Jeremiah involved. So I’ve just gotta give ya a little incentive.” At this, he lowered the barrel of her pistol away from his head and towards her. A little incentive.

“What if we make a deal?” she finally proposed, eyeing her weapon nervously.

Jerome considered the idea for a moment. “I always like a good game show. What do ya have in mind?”

 

…

 

_ (Jeremiah’s POV) _

He’d been a fool to think there’d be anything out here. All that remained in the gutted alleyways of Gotham Proper was filth. 

Or at least, that’s what Jeremiah had been thinking up until he found the party hats. 

The first one had been the most difficult to spot. Tucked in a crate full of burnt-out fireworks that just barely protruded from an empty garage down the street, it was almost impossible to see in the gathering darkness. But once he started looking, Jeremiah realized the favors had been everywhere, strewn about the streets like the shopping bags and pieces of cardboard that littered the area.

Most of them, he discovered, were simply colored blue, green, and red. But the further he wandered away from the Sirens’, the more flamboyant the coloring became, as did the abundance of the hats themselves. He was soon surrounded by vibrant pinks, cyans, oranges, and limes.

Against his better judgement, he followed a particularly assaulting violet hat that rolled into a dead-end alley. All Jeremiah cared about was finding Bruce. And if following these stupid accessories meant achieving his goal, then he would do it without a doubt.

But perhaps he’d been too hasty.

A woman, barely over twenty three, was drilled to the brick wall closing off the alley. The strings from the party hats were layered across her arms, neck, and legs. They were tightly knotted and had been cutting into her otherwise smooth dark skin for hours. Her head was held rigidly in place by a screw, coils of copper hair matted with blood from her skull, and a white object was shoved into her mouth. A single golden party hat had been tied around her stomach.

 

…

 

_ (Jerome’s POV) _

“You’re askin’ me to run all the way back downtown, sneak into the heart of the old bird’s territory, nab ‘im, and bring him back here? Doesn’t sound like much of a deal to me, darlin’.”

Barbara stood up angrily and kicked her barstool in. “I’m giving you a truck and as much fuel as you need. Seems pretty damn fair to me.”

Jerome remained seated, but pulled one foot up onto his stool. “Sure, but I’m risking my neck and you’re risking a couple gallons of gas. And really, where are you gonna take ‘em anyways? It’s not like you’re needed anywhere else.”

“I need a show of faith, seeing as you’re still pointing my own gun at me. Doesn’t exactly instill trust in a girl.”

“Where was my show of faith three years ago?” he countered, hugging his knee.

“Urgh! You’re impossible, ginger, you know that?” Barbara smacked Jerome’s glass of ginger ale, flinging the crystal glass across the room and shattering it on the marble tile.

“That was uncalled for. But I’ve got a different proposition for ya. If you’re willing to listen, that is.”

She threw her arms up in resignation, still flailing that knife around. “Doesn’t seem like I’ve got much of a choice.”

“Good answer. I’m willing to accept your terms  _ if _   you let me do whatever I want to Ozzy before I drag his poor old corpse to you.”

“I want him alive.”

Jerome grinned. “Oh trust me, I’m going to make sure he stays that way. But I’ve got a  _ lot _ of things I need to discuss with our dear ex-mayor, and I can’t guarantee I’ll have enough time if you just want me to transport ‘im.”

Barbara mulled the idea over for a moment before, “Fine. But when you get back, he better be breathing. Or else the deal is off. And don’t even think about running away with the truck I give you. I’m going to make sure you can’t get far with it.”

 

…

 

_ (Jeremiah’s POV) _

Creeping closer, Jeremiah hesitantly plucked the object from between the woman’s teeth. It was a pregnancy test reading positive. He shut his eyes, still holding it. Jeremiah took a couple of deep breaths before setting it gently on the ground. He untied the golden hat from around her waist. Inside, he found a rolled up greeting card titled “And then there were three, congrats on the new baby!”. The inside left page held a note written in surprisingly clean cursive which read:

_ Shame that in this case, the three are whoever this lady is, you, and me, of course. What a dysfunctional family that would be. You’ll have to excuse me however, I’m still trying to figure out who exactly you are, but I’m doing my best to be polite about it. It’s funny though; people always say we look alike. Personally, I don’t see the resemblance, unless you count the impeccably drawn eyebrows. In which case, cheers, dear. _

_ On to more pressing matters. I know, I understand. You’re thinking ‘Oh golly gee how could someone do such a thing to a poor, innocent, pregnant girl? She had a child!’. And that’s just the problem! It’s sick to bring a kid into this city! And now of all times. This flagrant display of abuse before the child is even born is...well, comical really! I’d know a thing or two about what this city can do to a kid. At least, I think I do. Do memories matter if they’re not real? Scratch that. Sentimentality makes for a boring first impression. _

_ Word on the street, grapevine, and little bird is that you’re lookin’ for me! You and the angry ginger. I’m not quite sure what I did to get such low-brow press, but hey, at least you’re cute. That’s why I’ve enclosed a little gift for you. Somebody will be along to...fill in the blanks. And, no, attendance isn’t optional. I’ll be seein’ you soon. Toodles <33333333 _

There wasn’t a signature, but Jeremiah could guess the sender. Resting on the right side of the card was a single show ticket, but the slots for date and location were both empty.  _ Thank you, Bruce, this is incredibly helpful. You’ve always been so forward and considerate _ , he thought sarcastically. This note was almost as vague as the signals he got during the two months he spent chasing the boy’s heart.

Wait. There was only one ticket. And Bruce knew full well that both him and Jerome were trying to track him down. It didn’t take him long to decide, though. Biting his lip, he slipped the ticket into his suit jacket alongside the keycard and tossed the card behind a stack of rotting cardboard boxes. He couldn’t risk Jerome finding it and realizing he was keeping something from him. There was nothing he could do for the woman. He had nothing to remove the screw from her skull, nor did he have a knife to cut each little string from her body. The night was coming into full darkness and soon he’d have bigger problems. Besides, it wasn’t like she was going to get any more dead.

Before leaving the area, he changed his mind. He dashed back over to the stack of boxes and fished the card out. Bruce had written in it, after all. And who knows, maybe he’d need it later. Jeremiah folded it up and began to make his way back to the nightclub. The party hats sparkled in the darkness, and he let them guide him back to the madness of society, or what was left of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you think the twins' little excursion to City Hall is going to go? Will they actually get to see Bruce soon? Should Jeremiah keep the card to himself? I guess we'll find out soon, but I'd love to hear what you think in the comments! Thanks for reading, and feel free to check out my tumblr @evelynsinkwell to see more wayleska and valeyne posts <3


	4. Build Me Up

_ (Jeremiah’s POV) _

Barbara may be a bitch but she was a cunning bitch. She’d handed Jeremiah the keys to an old military Jeep-style truck, and somehow managed to put  _ just _ enough fuel in it to reach City Hall and back. With those resources, technically the pair could just drive to the northern sector and abandon the vehicle when it ran out of gas. But Barbara was a good ally to have, especially as she was one of the three major players in this little equation of a city. Once they handed over Oswald, their biggest threat, they could easily gain control of his resources and followers. And the police department hardly counted. Not to mention, his brother held a rather personal vendetta against the old umbrella man and wanted to make him pay for his disloyalty.

What was further discomforting was the absolute decimation of any civility in the streets. Every road was either completely devoid of life or had lunatics in offensive outfits chasing each other left and right, leaving nothing but pointless violence in their wake. And the strangest part was the knowledge that  _ he _ had caused this. There was no electricity, or clean water, or food because of  _ him _ . Jeremiah still agreed with his past self, however. Gotham needed to be rebuilt. This was the most simple and effective way to do it. He just hadn’t planned on witnessing the messy in-between stage so...personally.

“Brother dear, remind me again why you got to drive? We all know I’m better with a stick,” Jerome grinned from the passenger seat.

“I believe I was given the keys because Barbara would actually like her truck back, rather than a useless pile of scrap metal.”

“Oh c’mon, I’d make somethin’ fun out of it! Y’think she likes ponies?”

“Funnily enough, no, I don’t think she does. She’s a woman of practicality. I know, why don’t you make her a truck?”

Jerome lit up. “That’s a brilliant idea! I mean, how funny would that be? She gives me a truck and I destroy her truck with a deep fryer and a chainsaw to make another truck.”

“Explain to me where the deep fryer comes in.”

His brother reached across the console and pressed a finger to his forehead. “Use your imagination a little, it’s not gonna kill ya.”

“No, but I just might kill the both of us if you continue to press your disgusting degenerate appendage against my face.”

“Are you worried about me messin’ up your makeup?” Jerome teased, his finger moving in circles now.

In a flash, Jeremiah moved his hand from the steering wheel and grabbed Jerome’s wrist, bending it back. “Don’t. Touch. Me.”

“Oh?” Jerome asked with a raised eyebrow, his arm unmoving. “And what are you going to do about it?”

“That depends on how much you value each of your body parts,” Jeremiah responded, eyes back on the road.

“Lucky for you, I’ve priced ‘em all out. Arms can go first, they’re for pussies. Legs are pretty useful but not impossible to replace. Same thing with eyes. I could go without ears too, I guess. I rather like my mouth, though I wouldn’t be heartbroken over losing the ability to bite my own tongue.”

“I was actually thinking I could cut off your dick so you couldn’t stick it in everything that breathes,” Jeremiah muttered under his breath.

“You mean so I couldn’t stick it in Bruce?” Jerome asked dangerously, a sly smile lifting his face.

“That isn’t what I said, now is it?” Now Jeremiah was biting  _ his _ tongue.

“No, and yet it’s what you meant. In your defense though, nobody but us is gonna wanna stick it in that much crazy, so you’ve got time to gain some actual sex appeal before it’s even a real competition. The makeup was a good start.” Jerome gave him a sarcastic little clap by hitting the back of the hand he had bent and was still holding. Jeremiah abruptly released his arm, watching in satisfaction as his brother shook out his wrist.

They could tell as soon as they’d entered Penguin’s territory. Lights still filled most of the windows of the Diamond and Fashion districts, but several of the houses and stores seemed to have been converted into production factories of some sort. They all had hastily built warehouses attached to them and large shipping containers were stacked against the walls. No vehicles were in sight, however. In that regard, they were fortunate to have Jim and Barbara on their side.

Surprisingly enough, no one tried to stop them from moving through the districts. In fact, there wasn’t anyone on the streets. It was a rapid shift from the chaos of the previous areas. The only movement came from the flickering of the dim street lights (Penguin must have an abundance of energy) and the smog arising from the factories. Eventually, the lights grew brighter and City Hall came into view. Figures clad in black suits carrying MP7A1 submachine guns patrolled the perimeter. Jeremiah slowed the truck. Apparently Cobblepot had better security than the GCPD.

“Well how the diddly-doo are we supposed to get through that? I’m all for a horde of muscular men in suits stoppin’ me at the gates, but I’m not as interested in gettin’ shot in the head,” Jerome said, craning his neck to get a better look at what was happening in front of them.

“I believe it’s your turn to use your imagination,” Jeremiah commented breezily.

His brother gave him another eyebrow look. “Aren’t you supposed to be a math whiz? There’s at least ten of ‘em and two of us. And we’re unarmed. And you don’t count.”

“Luckily for you, I  _ am _ in fact, a math whiz. But it doesn’t take a genius to recognize that a bomb with enough ignition to light up a tank can take out more than ten people.”

“A bomb? Where are we…” He glanced behind them at the vodka stocked in the back. “Oh. Oh!” Jerome reached across the console once more and ruffled his hair. “I knew I kept ya around for somethin’!”

“If you touch me one more time, I will ensure that I abscond from the explosion site without you.”

“Y’know, maybe people don’t like you because you’re always so grumpy.”

“We really don’t have time to pick apart my psyche. Let’s schedule a time for it, shall we?”

Jerome clapped his hands together excitedly. “Next Tuesday. Nine a.m. Jim’s office.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Jeremiah smiled indulgently. If that’s what it took to get him to shut up, he’d gladly consent. “Now, I’m going to move the truck over into that sidestreet so I can make a proper Molotov.”

Once parked, Jeremiah and Jerome went around the back of the truck to examine what exactly they were working with. Jerome hopped in, opened a crate, and started passing him bottles.

“We only need three or so,” Jeremiah said once his hands were full.

His brother popped his head out of the back. “But you said there were ten guys. So, ten little firebombs. I took math too, y’know.”

“We lure them into grouping and use the minimal amount of firepower necessary. And in fact, you’re intelligent enough to recognize that plan. You just want an excuse to make more explosives.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. From what I’ve heard, you’ve got a fondness for explosions yourself.” Jerome grinned, jumping back down.

Jeremiah just shrugged and opened one of the bottles of vodka, passing the second one back to Jerome. “Cheers,” he said, clinking his bottle against his twin’s and tipping it to his lips.

“To letting the two craziest guys in Gotham handle the psychopath of the century,” Jerome toasted, also raising his bottle.

“To falling in love with the psychopath of the century,” Jeremiah sighed with another swig.

“Does Bruce know you’re an alcoholic?” his brother inquired.

He poured a third of the bottle’s remaining contents onto the sidewalk. “No, seeing as I’m not an alcoholic and he currently has no memory of either of us.”

“Miah. Miah, Miah,” Jerome started with a sigh, shaking his head. “Drinking as a coping mechanism still counts as alcoholism. That’s like the first thing they teach you in AA. I know this because Mom attended four meetings and bitched about every single one of them. Of course, you weren’t around for this. You were off getting an education and whatnot.”

“First of all,” he began with gritted teeth, opening the third bottle. “You know I hate that nickname. Secondly, Mother was always a bit of a drinker, I’m not quite sure why she only began seeking recovery after I left. And third of all, we still need some sort of cloth to use as a fuse and conductor.” Jeremiah reached for Jerome’s silly little grey scarf as he said this, but had his hand swatted by a vodka bottle.

“Ouch,” he said, shaking out his knuckles. “What’s your issue now?”

Jerome seemed highly affronted. “I happen to like this scarf very much.”

“And I happen to like completing this idiotic mission so we can continue pursuing our real goal. Give me the scarf.”

“No,” his brother said, his hand against his collarbone. “We can use my shirt.”

Jeremiah sighed once more, his own hand pressed to forehead. “We are absolutely not going to kidnap Oswald Cobblepot with you and your naked torso. I will not be seen with you.”

“But I won’t be naked. I’ll have my scarf on. On the bright side, the explosion might blind you if my looks don’t do that first.”

He couldn’t tell if he was laughing or crying. “Can’t you see, that is ten times worse. Please, Jerome. I don’t ask for much. And right now I’m asking to never have to see you shirtless wearing nothing but jeans and a grey scarf.”

“Too late, you’re already imagining it,” Jerome cackled.

“I am, and it hurts. I’ve never wanted to unsee something more. End my brain’s functioning, please.”

“Careful what you wish for,” he sang, grin widening.

Jeremiah reluctantly removed his hand from his head and held it out. “The scarf, if you’d be so kind as to spare me from thinking of this any further.”

His brother eventually handed over the garment, but Jeremiah had to pass it back.

In response to Jerome’s questioning look, he commanded, “Tear it into thirds,” to which he responded with another whoop of laughter. “Shut up, you’re going to draw attention to us. What’s so funny?”

“Can you-are you really...it’s not that hard,” Jerome tried to get out between chuckles

“Why would I bother wasting the exertion when I have you?” Jeremiah countered, a hand on his hip.

“You really have no desire to prove your masculinity? Ever? No compulsive need to punch shit just because you can?”

“You can be masculine without being an asshole. When was the last time you opened a door for someone or handed over your jacket?”

The scarf was in pieces now, the threads torn and dangling lifelessly. Jeremiah set to work adjusting the amount of alcohol in the other two bottles.

“I’ll be honest, I haven’t really had the opportunity seeing as the only person I’ve ever went after has a frustratingly immense amount of pride. Actually now that I think about it, the only time Bruce has let me open a door for him was when I was practically carrying him into a motel r-”

Jeremiah pressed his hands against his ears and began humming as loudly as he could, searching around the area for something he could use as a siphon.

“Oh? You don’t want to hear about that?” he could hear his brother tease from behind him, his voice growing louder and more daring. “You don’t want to visualize him up against the headboard, those dark brown curls falling in his eyes? You don’t want to think about him kneeling on the carpet, his pretty pink lips parted as he begs for-”

A clear  _ thwack _ resounded through the side street. Jerome clutched his cheek, spitting blood onto the sidewalk. Jeremiah yanked him up by the collar of his shirt and said calmly,

“I couldn’t care less about where you two have been, and what you’ve done. But it’s a disgrace to Bruce’s name to kiss and tell, so to speak. You’re making the man you love, and the man  _ I love _ , sound like a common whore, and we both know he deserves so much more than that. So at least do him the decency of keeping your affairs to yourself. It’s not like you have any decency left to preserve”

In response, Jerome spat another glob of blood, this one landing on Jeremiah’s cheek. He flinched, automatically releasing his twin who went off to sulk under the pretense of a muttered, “...going to find a hose.”

Still fuming, Jeremiah wiped the blood from his face, fearing the crimson streak he knew now ran across his skin.

At least Jerome was timely about it. He came back a few minutes later, a green garden hose twisted around his arm. Wordlessly, he attached it to the truck’s gas tank and siphoned fuel into the three bottles. Using the only gasoline they had was risky, but it was that or become human swiss cheese, and Jeremiah much preferred having to walk a couple of blocks than dying at the hands of Cobblepot’s cronies.

Maintaining his silence, Jerome stuffed the remains of his scarf into the necks of each bottle and retrieved his lighter from the duffle bag by the passenger seat. He took care to douse the exposed ends of the cloth bits in vodka as well.

“I’m going to distract them,” Jeremiah told his brother as they got back in the truck, bottles between Jerome’s legs. All he got as a reply was a nod. “Would you like to know how?” A shrug. “Are you going to act like a child for the rest of the evening?” Jerome bit his lip but said nothing. “Fine, you know what? I’m telling you anyways, so you don’t get both of us killed. I’ll get us about a block away and leave you with the truck. I’m going to walk the rest of the way, throw one of the Molotovs to create a scene so they flock, and hide behind those mailboxes over there,” he said, pointing down the street. “Then, you’re going to drive up and throw the other two. Once they’re incapacitated, we’ll take their guns and any ammo they have on them and then go find Penguin. Okay?”

Jerome nodded once more.

“I’m all for seeing you try and keep your mouth shut for longer than two minutes but now is a rather bad time. You clearly have something on your mind so spit it out.”

“You sound like me,” Jerome finally responded.

“Well one of us has to, apparently!” Jeremiah burst out, frustrated.

“You’re right, y’know. What you said, I mean.” His twin was looking at him now from the corner of his eye, almost gauging his reaction.

“And you’re throwing a hissy fit because I’m right?”

“No. If that were the case, I’d be throwing a hissy fit 24/7. One of your most obnoxious qualities is your ability to always be right. Well,  _ mostly right _ , at least. Even when you’re not. If that makes any fucking sense.”

“It really doesn’t, but go on.”

“I’m pissed because you can always have these stupid conversations and I can’t. It just doesn’t compute for me. What’s too far, or crossing a line, or gonna get me punched in the face. But you always know exactly what to say to people, even if they don’t want to hear it.”

“I wasn’t the one who convinced half the city to kill all their friends just by airing a couple of television broadcasts.”

“But see that’s just it. I can make people turn on each other, get under their skin and have them do things they’d never even want to witness. I can fascinate people, enthrall them with charismatic displays of violence. But you...you can make people like you, Miah. Really like you, as a person...rather than an idea. And I’ve never been able to do that. No one goes around talking about how good of a cook I am, or how nice of a kid I was. They’re just like, ‘Oh yeah, Jerome! He’s the chaos guy with the creepy laugh. What was he like four years go? Hell, I don’t know. You mean he didn’t come out that way?’ I wasn’t born fucking insane. I mean maybe a little. But that’s all people ever remember about me.” Jerome was speaking quickly, like if he didn’t say all of this now, he might never say any of it.

Jeremiah, despite his brother’s ideas, didn’t really know what to say. He began haltingly, “Perhaps people don’t know who you really are because you never let them. You were always so adamant, after Mother’s death, about putting on a show that no one ever saw you after the curtain closed. Because you never closed it, at least not for the public. You were always trying to be ‘Jerome Valeska: Comedy’s Finest Psychopathic Anarchist’. And so of course that’s all they knew.”

Tilting his head to actually look Jeremiah in the eyes, Jerome contemplated his words for a moment before concluding, “Maybe it’s time for a new season. One with a more honest Jerome. Now, let’s go light some bitches on fire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this wasn't heavy on the action, but I think our boys needed some character development. After all, they've been through a lot. But now I'm hyped for some of the...introductions to come. We might just have a new game show on our hands next chapter :) Also, tell me how y'all feel about the tension between Jerome and Jeremiah because I don't mean to write it, but sometimes it comes out sounding a little questionable so your input is very much appreciated
> 
> I love comments, any comment, all comments so feel free to leave 'em! And if you want, follow me on tumblr @evelynsinkwell because if you don't have a cult following you're not doing the valeska twins justice


	5. What Am I?

_ (Jerome’s POV) _

 

If Penguin’s goons hadn’t been carrying machine guns, Jerome just might’ve laughed at their outfits. Actually, he did laugh at their outfits. As they writhed around on the concrete in flames. Who wouldn’t? Oswald was such a kind and benevolent leader, he’d gone to the lengths of dressing them in black skinny jeans, black collared shirts with black ties, and shiny knee-high boots with pointed toes. These were men well into their thirties and forties and he’d put them in the staple outfit of all homosexual edgy guys between the ages of thirteen and twenty five. 

“Either Oswald has a fetish, or he’s trying to go back to his childhood,” Jeremiah remarked, echoing his thoughts and stooping to pick up a gun that one of the men had dropped by his feet. Quickly and efficiently he shot each whimpering pile of flesh who hadn’t been reduced to sinew and ash in the head.

“Well that was unnecessary,” Jerome pointed out. “They’d die in a few minutes anyways and we’d get to watch them wriggle around for a little longer.”

His brother just shrugged. “I couldn’t stand the noise. Besides, we don’t need to alert Mr. Cobblepot to our presence anymore than we already have.”

“I think the explosions, the screaming, and the fact that we pulled up in a truck might’ve done that for us, actually.”

The pair found, however, that Oswald Cobblepot was rather preoccupied at the moment. They’d made an extra Molotov to chuck through the front doors of City Hall, just to create a little atmosphere. The smoke cleared a bit and the boys burst through the doors, stolen firearms in hand.

“Hiya, Mr. Oswald! I’m here to register my car, outta date and all that,” Jerome announced cheerfully, sweeping into the main hall with Jeremiah following close behind him.

But the ex-mayor wasn’t looking at him. He was furiously glaring at the tall man standing in front of him sporting a glimmering emerald suit and a black bowler hat.

“Edward Nygma, for the last time! Did you or did you not place those crates in the back lot of the manufacturing plant?”

The four-eyed brunette seemed offended. “How  _ dare _ you? What kind of imbecile do you take me for? They put them onto that semi-truck, like you asked.”

“ _ We don’t have a semi-truck, Ed! _ ” Oswald shouted, shaking the man who’s name was apparently an enigma by the shoulders.

“Pardon me, Mister Cobblepot,” Jeremiah interjected, trying to draw his attention.

“One moment, Mr. Valeska, please! Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?” he replied, not breaking eye contact with Ed. “Who told you we had a semi? How could you be so stupid?”

“Stop insisting that I’m an idiot. One of your managers told me to have them loaded onto the truck, I assumed it was a direct order from you.”

“Since when do I take an active role in my production? You must have realized something was wrong!”

“No, actually I didn’t,” Edward stated in annoyance. “I was rather preoccupied with something else.”

“Preoccupied with what, exactly?”

The taller man huffed. “I don’t want to tell you now. It was supposed to be a nice surprise, but I’m not really feeling up to it anymore. I think I’ll go gaze solemnly out the bedroom window thinking of ways to rig the kitchens.”

“Not so fast, little leprechaun,” Jerome said, raising his gun. He was sick of hearing them squabble.

Oswald’s head darted back and forth between him and his boyfriend. Finally settling on Jerome, he dusted off his hands and hobbled towards him.

“Jerome Valeska in the flesh. Death just isn’t in the cards for you, is it?”

“Apparently not, sir,” he replied with a grin. “So, how’ve you been? Being the king of a pile of rubble and dead bodies must be a busy job, I’m sure you’re exhausted. Don’t worry though! I don’t want to keep ya too long.”

He was looking past him, though. “And Jeremiah Valeska. I’d heard a little rumor that you were roaming the streets again. I can’t say there’s many places left to roam, however, since your remodeling project went into effect.” Oswald was forcing a taut smile now. “I’d hate to think you felt any responsibility for this little pickle we’re in. After all, the only thing you did was mass engineer bombs to destroy the city! And when that didn’t go to plan, you just cut us off from the mainland, taking the lives of thousands! And who would be so cruel as to hold you accountable for that?”

Jeremiah yawned, placing a delicate hand to his mouth. “I’m growing rather tired of the same song and dance, Mr. Cobblepot. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to skip all of the half-hearted accusations and instead jump to the part where my brother does his thing and we get out of this pretentious mess you’ve surrounded yourself with.”

“I’d be much more willing to talk if you told your brother to stop aiming that gun at my- at Edward,” Oswald said, furtively glancing back at Ed.

Jerome was silent, enjoying the show these three characters were putting on.

His brother rolled his eyes, an action he’d learned early on in their childhood and never really seemed to let go of. “I would gladly ask that of him, sir. However, you know just as well as I do that he doesn’t take directions very well. But by all means, I’ll give it my best shot.” Jeremiah reached over and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Pardon me, Jerome. Mr. Cobblepot would appreciate it if you shifted the trajectory of your firearm.”

“Oh! My bad, Oswald!” Jerome moved the aim of the machine gun a bit lower. “Better?”

“Yes, Jerome. I’m much more content with you shooting his bladder than his head. No, that’s not better! Put your gun down, or I’ll-”

“Or you’ll what?” Jeremiah drawled softly, raising his own weapon. “Because the way I see it, sir, you are significantly disadvantaged both in resources and physiology. My brother could have fourteen bullets in your dorky boyfriend’s face before you could hobble your way in front of him.”

A hasty “He’s not my-” echoed from the two older men in the room. Oswald quickly glanced back at Edward once more before saying, “Perhaps, Mr. Valeska, we got off on the wrong foot. If you just tell me what you’re here for, maybe we can work something out.”

“You’re right! How rude of us to just barge in here all demanding and wave our guns around wildly! Let’s all take a seat, make a nice pot of tea-” Jerome noticed his brother stiffen at the mention of a teapot. “-or a cup of coffee,” he corrected, (while it would be amusing to see, he did not have time to deal with his brother’s PTSD right now), “and talk things out like gentlemen.” The two older men stared at him in bewilderment. He motioned to the seats positioned in front of Oswald’s desk with his weapon. “Well, sit!” he commanded with a smile.

Jeremiah perched on the edge of the wooden desk, crossing his ankles neatly. Jerome, finding this quite boring, slung the machine gun over his shoulder and lifted the Penguin’s rolling chair from behind the desk to the front. Another wave from the firearm and Cobblepot and Edward were rushing into the leather chairs opposite the twins. Ed leaned over to whisper something in Oswald’s ear, but jumped back abruptly with a sharp yelp as a bullet passed cleanly through the top of his own ear.

“Would you like to share with the rest of the class, Mr. Nygma?” Jeremiah asked with an inquisitive tilt of his head, laying his gun gently across his lap.

“I was just commenting on your lovely suit, Mr. Valeska,” Edward replied with a wince as Oswald removed his purple tie and pressed it to his bleeding wound.

“Lovely, indeed. Although, I feel as though you’re hardly one to criticize,” Jeremiah appraised.

“I’m bored,” Jerome finally piped up. “Let’s hop to it. Y’see, we were just gonna rush in nice and quiet like, put a cute little bag over Mr. Oswald’s head and make our getaway. But you, Jiminy Cricket, pose a bit of a problem,” he said with a disappointed frown, pointing at Ed. “So now we’ve gotta reconfigure the whole plan, and it’s a big mess, and I hope you’re ashamed of yourself for causing us so much trouble.”

Jeremiah rolled his eyes once more. “My brother’s just being dramatic and looking for an excuse to pout. Not that he ever needs one. Really, everything will go as planned, but now we need to take both of you, unfortunately. And if you agree without anymore gunfire, I’ll give each of you a biscuit,” he added with a poisonous smile.

“Compelling, really,” Edward replied through gritted teeth, still holding Oswald’s tie to his ear. “But I think we’ll pass on this excursion. The invitation was truly a kind thought, however, and we hope you have greater success in your next endeavor.”

“Well, we can’t just go back empty handed. I’m not sure if you quite understand,” Jerome reasoned, examining a glass paper weight. “We’re trying to track down something rather important to us, and in order to find it, we’ve gotta hand over Pengy here as a bargaining chip,” he said apologetically.

Looking to his left, he saw a very obvious expression of disdain. “What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“Oh, nothing,” Jeremiah remarked to the buttons covering his wrist. “It’s just that you’re rather forward, aren’t you? Print out a brochure next time, and save us the trip.”

“I wasn’t the one who told the entire GCPD that I, a.) had created an arsenal of bombs, and b.) planted said bombs around Gotham, and c.) left the plans to rewire them in my cartoonishly-obvious-super-secret-bunker.”

“And yet those bridges still fell. At least I didn’t spell out the name of my new band of psychopaths in bodies in front of the Gotham Tribune headquarters, hand out the names of my victims like candy, and reveal my exact location on live television three consecutive times to spill my plans to the entire city.”

Jerome waved away his accusations. “I’ve been in the game longer, I’m bound to have made more mistakes. Besides, you’ve gotta admit, the power plant was a good move.”

His brother bit his lip before answering reluctantly, “You certainly set the stage.”

“Did ya hear that, folks? I ‘certainly set the stage’! Finally, he admits that I’m good at my job. It only took half a childhood plus four odd years.” Jerome clapped his hands, taking a small bow in his chair.

The cricket man seemed frustrated. “Can we get back to the part where you’re using Oswald to bargain? With who?”

“What exactly would we gain by revealing that to you?” Jeremiah asked, clearly not really caring for the answer.

“Perhaps we could offer you a better deal,” Oswald replied through thin lips.

Jerome spun the chair in a quick circle before standing up. “Trust me, Mr. Oswald, you don’t have what we need. And we need these things fast.” He turned to his brother and said, “This is taking too long. Shoot greenie in the head. I’ll grab Penguin."

Unfortunately, neither of the Valeskas were aware of exactly who “greenie” was. And someone who was frequently referred to as the smartest man in Gotham wasn’t going to go out at the hands of two ginger psychopaths who’d mocked him for twenty minutes straight.

“Jeremiah, is it?” Edward began with a sly smirk.

“Yes,” his brother replied calmly, raising his gun.

“It seems rather unlike you to simply shoot me and go about the rest of your day. Aren’t you supposed to have the most brilliant mind in the city? Where is the elaborate scheming? The plan that no one could have solved unless you wanted them to? All of this nonsense, well...it reeks of your brother. When is it your turn to run the show?”

Jeremiah stiffened but remarked passively, “For the sake of time, we needed an act that was quick and efficient. My brother provided just that.”

“Sure, but if  _ you’d _ been in charge, you would’ve snuck in here and gotten ahold of Oswald without me even realizing it until he was gone.”

Oswald Cobblepot was currently avoiding eye contact with Jerome Valeska, who was trying his very best to initiate it. Why didn’t people ever want to look at him? It’s not like he had anything else to do while his twin had a conversation with the only other person in the room.

“Perhaps. What does it matter now? You think too much, Mr. Nygma.”

“Well, they don’t call me the Riddler for nothing,” Edward said, seeming rather pleased with himself. Oswald, on the other hand, rolled his eyes very slowly and deliberately. Unfortunately, his action went unnoticed by his boyfriend.

“Mhm, yes,” Jeremiah said, looking more closely at Ed. “I recall your appearance in the paper. Robbery, was it?”

The man sitting diagonal from Jeremiah blinked rapidly in affrontation. “Actually I became infamous for an elaborate scheme involving a robbery, a bomb, and the murder of a police officer, all resulting in putting Detective Gordon behind bars, which is more than one can say for you. And then, yes, two years later I assisted a friend of mine in a succession of bank robberies.” Oswald made an imperceptible noise at the mention of Ed’s friend, but chose not to elaborate.

“Thrilling. I suppose recognition for a plan such as yours  _ would _ immensely raise one’s self esteem. So far, in fact, that they must create their own nickname. Terrifying, truly. Why worry about someone running around under the alias of the Joker when the Riddler is on the loose. And please, don’t even get me started on the fear induced by ‘the Penguin’.” Sometimes Jerome forgot just how much of a sarcastic, condescending little bitch his brother could be. What a great personality trait, especially when directed at someone other than himself.

“Do you know why they call me the Riddler?”

“I assume it’s because you dabble in riddlery. And because you continuously refer to yourself by that name.”

Edward’s smirk grew. “Yes, I’m rather apt at the art of wordplay.” Another eye roll from Oswald.

“Your boyfriend seems to disagree,” Jerome eventually input.

“Oh no, not at all,” Oswald said quickly. “Ed’s the smartest man I know. A bit full of himself perhaps,” he added with a pointed look, “But inarguably remarkable.”

“And if Jeremiah would like to argue?”

His brother threw a filthy glance his way, starting “Jeremiah would very much  _ not _ like to- actually,” he paused, considering the idea. “I changed my mind. Edward and I are going to discuss further intellectual inquiries. Jerome, why don’t you take Mr. Cobblepot upstairs and get...reacquainted?”

Jerome grinned, leering in Oswald’s direction. “Gladly.” He held a hand out to the older man, still gripping his machine gun with the other. “Come along now, give me a nice tour of the place!”

As he was reluctantly led up the stairs by a stammering little bird, he saw Jeremiah say something to Edward that made him stand up and point accusingly at him. Nerds, always having to prove who’s better.

“I hope you kids have fun!” he shouted down the stairs before following Oswald into the room at the top of the landing, hearing a glass break as the door clicked shut behind him. Well, this was going  _ fabulously. _

 

_ (Jeremiah’s POV) _

 

The shards at his feet glimmered sadly. What a waste of a whiskey glass. That seemed to be a theme for the day. Although, perhaps it was warranted. Edward must not have appreciated his observation. That’s fine, not everyone likes hearing the truth.

“Take it back,” Edward growled, pushing his finger further against Jeremiah’s chest.

“From a psychological standpoint, you wouldn’t be reacting nearly this rashly if you believed I was incorrect,” he pointed out, sitting back down on the desk.

“You  _ are _ incorrect. Riddles are an artform. Coming up with the correct answer is an excellent show of intellectual ability. You’re simply uneducated.”

Personally, Jeremiah absolutely despised riddles. They were simplistic, barbaric puzzles that even the smallest child could devise a feasible answer to. Technically, there are several solutions to every riddle, and the ability to come up with a different solution that fit the verse should be just as heavily commended as arriving to the same conclusion as the concocter. And he’d told Edward just that, and in turn, he’d had a glass thrown at him. Typical of a robbery type. Too much pent up violence.

“I guarantee I can properly solve any riddle you give me. However, you could always claim my answer is incorrect and come up with your own. A dizzying little conundrum, isn’t it?”

“Trust me,” Edward said, stepping closer to him. “I take my riddles  _ very _ seriously. I would admit defeat if you were to outsmart me. Not that you could. I’ll be honest, I don’t really see the point in proving myself to a child.” He turned away from him and returned to his seat, crossing his legs. Gays truly can’t sit straight, can they?

“But somehow I single handedly brought this city to its knees while you cowered in a dark corner of the Narrows.”

“Oh no,” he began with a leer. “I was there for all of it. I was there for the bridges falling, I was there during your arrest, I was even there when you stole Martin and hid him away in a musty subway tunnel to lure Bruce Wayne to your side.” Edward’s self-satisfied smirk had contorted his features once more. “Speaking of our city’s prince, what exactly did you want with him?”

Jeremiah wanted lots of things with Bruce. Like a suburban home, three children, and a weekly meal plan. But he had a feeling that wasn’t the response Edward was looking for. Besides, something else was scratching at the back of his mind. A report from months ago, in the subways. Edward’s green suit...

“You! You’re the one who ruined my evening, stole my color scheme, and disrupted the plan that I had spent at least a day concocting. If it weren’t for your interference, maybe Bruce wouldn’t have-” He stopped speaking abruptly.

“Wouldn’t have what?” Edward asked, even more offensively curious.

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily for them, someone upstairs let out a resounding scream that filled the main room of City Hall, echoing off the marble floors.

“Oh my,” Jeremiah said with a grin. “I do hope that wasn’t our dear Mr. Cobblepot.”

 

_ (Jerome’s POV) _

 

“C’mon, Pengy! I told ya not to make that noise the last time around. We’re going to try again, and this time, I wanna hear somethin’ new from you. Okay? Take three!” he said gleefully, raising the hot poker he’d nabbed from the blazing ornate fireplace adorning the mob boss’s bedroom and playing another round of the ‘Ring of Fire’ on his kazoo. Why exactly Oswald had brought him here, he wasn’t quite sure. But he’d sure as hell make use of the tools he found.

Gripping his burned forearm, Oswald made a desperate run for the machine gun resting against the door. Cackling, Jerome dropped the instrument and swept his feet out from under him using the iron rod (not the one attached to his body). The man fell to the ground, glaring bitterly at him from the floor.

“You’re a psychopathic brat,” he spat. “The Court shouldn’t have bothered bringing you back.”

This statement caused Jerome to pause in his assault. Drawing back, he held Oswald on the floor with his foot. “What do you mean?”

Now it was Penguin’s turn to laugh. “You’ve never been committed to understanding this city, unlike some of us who’ve worked for years to control Gotham. That’s why you can never truly change it.”

“I've freed the minds of hundreds of people. I've changed the way this city operates,” Jerome retorted, cocky smile still firmly in place.

“Changed? I don’t think so. You’re like the freakshow you came from. You swing by once a year to shake things up, but a month later, everyone’s forgotten about you.”

It was like this stupid, pretentious bastard knew exactly what his greatest fear was. Actually, maybe he did. Jerome had made him a crucial part of his last escapade, after all. It’s not like he hadn’t spent time around the old bird.

“Maybe that’s why they keep bringin’ me back,” Jerome finally responded, bringing the burning metal down on Oswald’s flesh again. “I do something that none of you classic types can. Y’know what I’m talkin’ about. Just how Jeremiah was making fun of your boyfriend for his skill set. You always wanted to be part of that original generation. The mob bosses, the Carmine Falcone type, the ones with all the power to oversee the city, and play Gotham like a game of chess. You wanted all the money, and more importantly, all of the respect. And y’know why that is, Pengy?” Another jab to the furiously shaking man at his feet. He wanted to make him hurt.

“Enlighten me, Jerome,” Oswald said with a hiss as he was struck again, grabbing for the fire iron but missing pitifully, finding himself under Jerome’s foot once more.

“Because you never got any of it as a kid.” The ex-mayor opened his mouth to make some snarky contradictory remark but Jerome cut him off. “Hey, if anyone gets that, it’s me. No money, shitty friends, a mom who tried her best, at least at first, before  _ you _ started having to take care of  _ her _ . So obviously as an adult you’d do anything to be like those kings of the city. Because they had respect and power, the two things you always desired most.”

Jerome picked up the machine gun, retreating further into the room to place the iron in the fireplace again.

Staggering to his feet, Cobblepot leaned against the wall. “If you think you understand me so well, then how come you and I turned out so different? We made our first marks on Gotham at the same time, after all.”

“Think about it, old man. What makes you and I different?”

He was silent for a minute, seemingly mulling over Jerome’s words in his head. Finally, “We both had a purpose. A goal. But whereas I wanted to rise up and take my revenge by proving myself, you never cared about that. You just wanted to tear this city down in whatever way was convenient, and you were offered plenty of opportunities. I wanted to bring it meaning.  All you wanted to prove is that this world is meaningless.”

“Well, all of that, and I’m infinitely more charismatic,” Jerome laughed, his mouth quirking up into a hysterical grin. “You wanna go for take four?”

 

_ (Jeremiah’s POV) _

 

“Your brother’s a maniac! He’s going to kill Oswald!” Edward shouted as a third scream came from the room upstairs.

Jeremiah placed a hand on the machine gun at his side as a reminder. “No he won’t. He’s just playing a little before we need to get on the road, as they say. I’m simply supposed to entertain you until Jerome’s finished. Can’t have you wandering off where you aren’t needed.”

“Then entertain me. I have a proposition for you.”

“I’m not interested,” he responded immediately. Jerome’s last deal with Barbara was what had put them in this situation in the first place.

Edward leaned forward in his chair, twiddling his fingers like some cartoon villain. “I believe you will be, once you hear what I have to say.”

“Well nobody’s stopping you from speaking. Refrain from trying to be dramatic and just talk, please.” Dealing with this man was utterly exhausting.

“You want to leave here with Oswald and I, correct?”

“Technically, no, nobody wants  _ you _ . Just Oswald. However, we now see that you’re a package deal of sorts. So instead, Jerome will get Oswald nice and tired, we’ll abscond with him, and I’ll kill you. It’s not a complicated plan.”

“Then why haven’t you killed me already?”

Jeremiah was silent. He had an answer, but he’d never admit it out loud.

Edward knew he’d gotten to him. He could tell by the proud glint in his eyes. “Your lack of a response is a response in it of itself. You feel the need to prove yourself, to show that you’re better than me. After all, there can’t be two brilliant criminals with a taste for sparkling suits and a green and purple color scheme running around Gotham, can there? The city would soon become bored with us, and where would that leave you and I? Forgotten. Neither of us want that. You might as well eliminate your only threat now. If you can, that is.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m going to shoot you,” Jeremiah replied, exuding an air of apathy.

“Sure, but what does that prove? That you know how to work a gun? So does every man, woman, and child in Gotham.”

“What exactly are you proposing, Mr. Nygma?”

The man opposite him grinned in victory. “A competition. A game, if you will. That’s all. You win, I give you any information you want, as well as full control of our ammunition and cronies. You get to kill me after that’s all settled and leave with Oswald. But if  _ I _ win, well, you have to tell me who you’re working for and why. And then I get to kill you and your brother before going after your employer. Sound fair?”

Jeremiah met his rival’s gaze. “I do love a game with high stakes.”

“So a riddle contest it is,” Edward said, leaning back in his seat in satisfaction.

“No. Absolutely not.”

The man opposite him lifted a dark brow. “Scared you’ll lose?”

“Scared you don’t have any other talents?” Jeremiah retorted.

“You’re in  _ my _ territory, in _ my _ house, trying to kidnap _ my _ partner. I feel like you’re in no position to set the rules.”

He rubbed his forehead to alleviate the headache that he could already feel coming on and sighed audibly. “Fine, fine. A juvenile competition of wordplay it is. What are we playing to?”

Edward’s response was immediate, giving Jeremiah the impression that he’d either done this before or fantasized  _ frequently _ about it. “First to get three. The person who’s behind one gets a single chance to take back the tie. Short game, high stakes. Simple. Ready?”

All he gave him was another roll of his eyes and a slight nod.

“I have a heart, but I do not bleed. What am I?” Edward had a wide smile plastered across his face. It wasn’t nearly as compelling as Jerome’s or his own. Or Bruce’s.

“An artichoke,” he answered boredly.

“So, one point to you. Ask me a riddle.” He was almost bristling with excitement. Jeremiah couldn’t tell if this man was just a massive nerd, aroused, or obsessed.

“Two in a corner, one in a room, zero in a house, but one in a shelter. What am-”

“The letter ‘r’,” Edward interrupted. “Everyone’s heard that one.”

The corners of Jeremiah’s lips lifted in amusement. “Just testing how much time you’ve wasted poring over children’s books. One to one.”

Edward spent a little longer thinking about this one, biting his tongue before declaring, “I decide your choices. I whisper in your ear during the day, and influence your dreams at night. What am I?”

Picking at his nails, Jeremiah responded, “One’s conscious.” A reluctant thumbs-up confirmed his answer. “Two, one. My turn.” He thought for a moment. “I heal broken people, start wars, and make friends. I’m a precious metal, and yet a common meal. What am I?”

Finally, one that made that cocky bastard think for more than a second. Edward tilted his head to the side, considering every angle of the phrase.

“Would you like me to repeat it?” Jeremiah asked innocently.

“No, I would not.” Edward paused for a few more moments. “‘...precious metal, and yet a common meal…’” Eventually he came to a conclusion. “A silver tongue!”

Jeremiah reward him with a slow clap to match the pace of his puzzle-solving abilities. “I don’t want to imply that you’re struggling, Mr. Nygma, but that took an exceptionally long time for a seasoned veteran such as yourself.”

“It was poorly worded,” he replied with a nonchalant shrug. “Two, two. All tied up. If you get this one, and I fail the one that follows, you win.” Edward’s calm air was still in place, but Jeremiah could hear the sudden hesitation in his voice.

“Well, I don’t want to waste anymore time here. What’s the riddle, Riddler?”

This time around, Edward had his ready. “I gleam in the light, brown in the water, and feed millions. What am I?”

Jeremiah pondered the statement for a minute before exhaling in exasperation. This is exactly why he hadn’t wanted to settle this using riddles. They were so easy to interpret in a thousand different ways. The obvious answer was simply “fish”, but he knew someone calling himself “the Riddler” wouldn’t make it so clear. Or maybe he would because he knew Jeremiah would sit here berating himself over the simplicity of the answer. No, he finally decided. Edward Nygma had too much pride to make such a simple riddle.

“Cutlery.”

The brunette’s eyes widened behind his thick black frames.

“Did you hear me? Cutlery, silverware, forks, knives, spoons, and the like. That’s my answer.”

“That’s...correct,” he choked out, grinding his teeth.

“Wonderful,” Jeremiah said, smirk never leaving his face. “My turn again.” His own riddle was already prepared, too. “I’m your favorite rush, your biggest regret, and the thing you wish you forgot the most, but wish you could remember if only to savor me one last time. What am I?”

Perhaps it sounded a bit ambiguous when he said it, but to Jeremiah, it was clear as day. However, as Edward’s face slowly dropped in confusion, he realized just how many ways one could interpret the riddle. Well, that’s not his problem. In fact, it was exactly his point.

Ed chewed his tongue some more, furrowing his brow. He began to cast his eyes around the room, waiting for the answer to jump out at him. Or maybe he already had an answer but knew in his heart it was wrong.

“Alcohol,” he answered confidently, five minutes later.

“I’m sorry to inform you, Mr. Nygma, but your answer is  _ incorrect, _ ” Jeremiah said softly, his smile growing. “The correct answer was a one-night stand.”

Realization and surprised mingled on his defeated opponent’s face. “What do you know about one-night stands?” he eventually commented, ignoring acknowledging his loss.

Jeremiah just laughed bitterly before lifting his gun to his lap. “I think you owe me some information.”

Raising his hands as a sign of compliance, Edward asked, “What do you want to know?”

Throwing all caution to the wind in his desperation for answers, Jeremiah simply requested, “Tell me about Bruce Wayne.”

“Bruce Wayne?” he asked, even more perplexed. “Why do you want to know about him?”

“Tsk, tsk, Mr. Nygma. I’m the one asking the questions here. I did win that right, after all.” Jeremiah sighed once more in disappointment before raising his weapon and shooting Edward through the foot. “Look, now you and Mr. Cobblepot match. Isn’t that cute?”

Letting out a sharp yell, Edward winced and kept his eyes shut as he responded. “Bruce Wayne doesn’t really have much to do with the city in the state that it’s in. He mostly holes up in his manor, but he comes out from time to time to donate resources and give speeches with Jim Gordon to raise morale or something. I don’t know. I don’t really pay attention to the kid.” He was speaking rapidly through his pain, but Jeremiah still caught every word. That didn’t mean he understood them.

“What do you mean, he comes out to give speeches? How does he look?”

Now he was staring at Jeremiah. “He looks fine? Skin, hair, eyes, whatnot, perfectly in place.”

None of his words made any sense. If his knowledge was correct, then Bruce was currently running around Gotham stealing gasoline from club owners and massacring politicians. And James Gordon was aware of this. So how the hell was he also making public addresses with Bruce, who just so happens to be a criminally insane sociopath? One thing was for certain; Jeremiah needed to speak with James, and soon.

“Okay, I have a different question for you. What was in the crate that was stolen from you? The one Oswald was furious about?” Speaking of Oswald, another scream escaped the upstairs room. Apparently, Jerome was having fun.

Edward’s eyes darted to the staircase. He was visibly sweating. Whether that was from the aching pain slowly building in his foot or the realization that he could die tonight, Jeremiah wasn’t sure. Another thing that simply wasn’t his problem.

“Don’t try it.” Jeremiah reminded him of the consequences of trying to escape by caressing the side of the machine gun.

“The crate was full of ammo. That’s what Oswald’s factories manufacture. He supplies the entire city, including the GCPD. Or he did. They had a falling out. What’s your brother doing to him?”

“Just playing. Jerome is easily entertained as long as his prey can still make sounds. He doesn’t like it when they’re quiet.” His wide, sinister grin returned as he spoke, and he gestured to the room above them. “Clearly, he’s still entertained.”

“You two are awfully close now for kids who grew up hating each other, and supposedly still did when you both mysteriously died.”

“It’s purely circumstantial,” Jeremiah snapped. “Stop asking questions.”

Suddenly a new sound came from above them. Both men’s attention snapped to the stairwell as the door crashed open and Oswald threw himself down the stairs, Jerome’s gun in his hands. The other man in question followed close behind him, with an expression almost synonymous with snarling. A hand was clasped to his neck as if he were hurt. Jeremiah immediately changed the trajectory of his own weapon, but it was too late. A bullet tore through his right bicep and he dropped the machine gun. At first, the only thing he felt was pressure. Immensely tight, suffocating pressure. He rose quickly to his feet, white flashes popping across his vision, and tried to make his way to the base of the stairwell, gripping the banister with his right arm. And that’s when the cold fire exploded in his veins, centering itself in a tiny concentrated supernova of pain in his arm. Being shot felt...different...than getting punched or stabbed. Jeremiah almost couldn’t register the pain as his own. 

He vaguely noted another bang, but couldn’t source it. Trying his best to ignore the burning sensation that was dulling into a far-off ache, he made out a voice shouting, “I’ve got him! Miah, we need to go, now!” Someone’s hand wrapped around Jeremiah’s right arm, directly over the torn and slowly reddening fabric of his suit. He inhaled sharply, pushing the person away from him with his left arm.

“This isn’t the time to- Oh. Oh shit.” Jeremiah heard something drop to the ground and caught a glimpse of red hair before it filled his vision. Jerome placed his hands on his right arm again, but this time his fingers were gentle, examining the wound through his suit. “Well, good news is, the bullet went through cleanly. We won’t have to wrangle it out of you like a parasite. Bad news is, looks like it tore your muscle pretty thoroughly.” The turquoise eyes looking at Jeremiah were full of a strange amount of concern. Jerome must’ve noticed the skepticism in Jeremiah’s expression, because he quickly replaced the worry in his gaze with warmth. “C’mon, I had to staple my face together every three hours. This is nothin’. We’ll fix ya up, just like new. But uh,” he reached down to pick up the object Jeremiah now realized was Oswald Cobblepot, “We gotta go now.”

Jerome shouldered their captive’s unconscious body and carried him through the entrance to City Hall and across the street to where he’d left the truck (rather carelessly, Jeremiah now realized). Luckily for them, Cobblepot’s territory was apparently rather gang-free in comparison to the rest of the city, and the vehicle remained untouched.

He watched as his brother tossed the ex-mayor into the back of the truck with all of the vodka bottles they’d turned into bombs. Using his left hand, Jeremiah still managed to slip neatly into the passenger seat while Jerome hopped into the driver’s seat.

“I’m perfectly capable of driving with a single hand,” Jeremiah pointed out, suddenly much more fearful for his life than he had been while getting shot.

A cheerful grin spread across his twin’s face. “Nonsense, you’re grievously injured. You need immediate medical attention. How dare you continue sitting up in your condition? Lay down, lest you damage your invaluable tool of a body part even further!”

“No, Jerome, I really think I should-OW.” His brother reached across the console to find the trigger to push his chair back, and “accidentally” dug his elbow into his arm.

“Aw Miah, you poor thing! Sounds like you’re in too much pain to even sit up. I guess I’ll just have to drive!” Jerome really tried his best to come across as sorry, but the glee in his eyes immediately ruined the effect.

“At this point, I’m dying anyways,” Jeremiah muttered under his breath, closing his eyes and draping his left arm dramatically across his forehead. “Tell me when it’s over. Or when we’ve gone to hell. Because I guarantee you’re my purgatory.”

“Nonsense,” Jerome insisted again, turning the key that he’d left in the ignition. “Think of how horrendous that’d be for me. And let’s be honest, I wasn’t the one who plunged Gotham into a state of emergency. If either of us have a shot of ascending from this mortal plane, it’s me.” He glanced over at Jeremiah and cackled, “Who would’ve thought, right?”

Gritting his teeth to stop himself from laughing along, Jeremiah responded, “Just drive. We have a body to drop off, and I’d like him to be in Barbara’s custody  _ before _ he wakes up. Otherwise, I may kill him. Besides, apparently Bruce is perfectly fine and makes regular public appearances, so we’re wasting our time.” The last part was supposed to be sarcastic but Jerome didn’t seem to pick up on that as the truck came to a screeching halt.

“You didn’t open with this?!?”

“I’m kidding! Sort of. I’ll explain when I have a cocktail and a new suit.”

“No, you’ll explain now,” Jerome stated, foot firmly on the break.

Sighing, he uncovered his eyes. “Head to the Sirens’ Club. I’ll tell you everything while you drive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout outs to @barefoot-joker, @gothamgeek-86 on tumblr and @kilannadrake here on ao3 for helping me figure out exactly how Jerome was going to entertain Oswald while Miah and Ed had their little nerdfest! Thank you guys so much!
> 
> Speaking of tumblr, feel free to follow me @evelynsinkwell for your valeyne, wayleska, and nygmobblepot fixes!
> 
> Let me know what you thought of this chapter! Y'all already know how much I love comments and interacting with you so you're welcome to leave them! Thanks for reading!


	6. Cyanide and Kerosene

_ (Jonathan’s POV) _

 

_ “Well, aren’t they precious?” J cackled from the corner of the room, clutching the static-filled screen in his hands as he threw back his head in amusement. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he turned to face Jonathan. _

_ Those strange, mosaic eyes fixated on him, he stammered, “Yes. Absolutely, sir.” _

_ “Jonathan,” he hummed. “You know I don’t like it when you wear your cult clothes inside. At least take off your hood. I want to see those pretty dark eyes.” _

_ He complied reluctantly, sweeping the dark fabric from his head. _

_ “Much better. Now I can tell when you’re lying to me,” he whispered poisonously, grin still intact.  _

_ “I would never lie to you.” _

_ “Good!” he exclaimed with a clap. “Then do tell what you think we should do about our new friends. Or if we should do anything at all…” The pale boy waltzed around the edges of the room, tracing the two-toned lights with his fingers as he mused. “No,” he decided. “Let them run around like rats in this maze of rubble a little longer. It’ll keep the rest of ‘em busy while we finalize the details...Speaking of,” he added abruptly, whirling around to grab Jonathan by the shoulders. “Tell me how your part in our little game is going! That’s why you’re here, after all.” _

_ Being this close to him made Jonathan inexplicably uneasy. He was supposed to be the master of fear, supposed to have erased the feeling from his own arsenal of emotions. But something about the unpredictably violent figure latching onto him was terrifying. _

_ “Everything is coming along excellently,” he managed to say without a tremble in his voice betraying him. “We’ve acquired almost all of the required materials, and my own contribution is nearly complete.” _

_ “C’mon, Jonny, I want somethin’ more than ‘almost’ and ‘nearly’! You’ve already kept me waiting for so long.”  _

_ Jonathan didn’t miss the threat interwoven with his tone, nor the fingers creeping from his shoulders to his throat. _

_ Taking a shallow breath, he said, “The ammo has been distributed as well. They’re simply waiting for your signal. Not that you should feel rushed. Each one of us is well aware of the importance of how these events are timed. You needn’t bother to make a public appearance. I’m capable of handling it.” _

_ “Y’know, he was right. You  _ are _ cute.” Jonathan was pushed away while the other boy continued his absent minded venture around and around. _

_ “Who was right?” Jonathan had an idea; a vision of fiery red hair and turquoise eyes came to mind. _

_ “Hmm…” he pondered, now walking on his tip toes. “I’m not really sure. Does it matter?” _

_ Jonathan shrugged indifferently. “Not especially.” _

_ There was a moment of silence before he converged on Jonathan once more, a switchblade appearing in his hand. “Wrong answer, Jonny,” he said, disappointment evident even through his smile. _

_ He took an automatic step back; he didn’t trust the boy with that switchblade one bit, and he’d prefer to leave alive. He wasn’t dying in  _ here _ of all places. _

_ “Figuring out where all these outside thoughts in my head are coming from matter more than anything else we’re doing here! I thought we’d been over this,” he scolded, reaching for him. _

_ Fear raced through Jonathan’s veins. He could see  _ it _ manifesting in the far corner of the room, the crows mingling with the static the old screen was still emitting. _

_ “No! I conquered you! I  _ am _ you!” he screamed at it, backing up even more, tripping over the hem of his cloak and toppling to the ground. _

_ The other figure towering above him loomed nearer, looking between him and his tormentor. Finally, he let out a hysterical burst of laughter that rang in his ears. “Are ya scared, Jonathan?” A flash of silver descended upon him. He felt his cheek grow wet, and saw red through his blurring vision. _

_ “Make it go away!” Jonathan shrieked, kicking wildly. _

_ “If you want it to go, give me some answers. I’ll tell it to leave you alone if you help me. I’ll protect you.” The pale smiling face twisted itself into some semblance of sympathy, brushing Jonathan’s hair back with an equally chalky hand. As it drew away from his face, the hand took on the red hue of the blood dripping from his face. “Tell me who they are.” J watched the red dance on his hand for a moment before his tongue flicked out, drawing it away with a wicked grin. _

_ “Who? Who are you talking about? I don’t know!” He couldn't think. All of his attention was on the corporeal straw menace staring through him. He was twisting his head from side to side, trying to shake the grip on his scalp. _

_ He hushed Jonathan again, holding his face with both of his hands, the knife now between his crimson lips. “Those spoilsports who’re running left and right tryin’ to track us down. You don’t want them to find us, do you? Tell me who they are. Your friend seems to be getting impatient, as well.” He wrenched his head out of J’s grasp to stare at the warped menacing figure. It raised its scythe as the seams holding its lips together tore, releasing a cascade of beetles. He could hear their limbs clicking as they flooded towards him.  _

_ “Jerome and Jeremiah Valeska!” he shouted, thrashing about wildly, scurrying backwards even further. “I-I used to work with them! I produced Jerome’s laughing gas and Jeremiah’s insanity spray. Please! Tell it to leave me alone!”  _

_ He looked past the man on top of him to the figure slowly heaving itself towards him, dragging its weapon against the ground. The sound of metal scraping against the floor and beetles buzzing in his ears filled his head. The caws of the crows increased in speed as they caught the beetles and tore at them without mercy, the clicking of their dagger-like beaks replacing that of the insects’ wings. Tilting its head from one side to the other, the scarecrow finally stood above him, breathing clouds of thick black smoke that only the red gleam of its own eyes could penetrate. He released a full-throated scream and pushed J off of him. His world went dark as he felt his eyes roll back into his skull. _

_ “That’s enough.” Jonathan felt himself get pulled to his feet. The sounds dissipated from his ears as quickly as they’d come. Cold, bloodsoaked fingers pulled at his cheeks, forcing a grin upon his face. “C’mon, give me a little smile! We just made what any psychologist would call ‘major progress’! Or actually, maybe it was more like ‘major regression’. Doesn’t matter, we all got what we wanted in the end. I got my information and you two got to catch up! All’s well that ends well and all that.” _

_ Jonathan slowly opened his eyes, adjusting to the brightness of the red and yellow lights that filled his vision. The scarecrow was gone. All that remained in that sinister corner was the static and his own weapon, the silver flare of the scythe winking at him as if it knew.  _

_ The white hands fell from his face to his shoulders, dusting him off like nothing happened. Jonathan didn’t dare push him away again. He saw him slip his knife back into his sleeve before dancing away from him. _

_ “So Jonny. Tell me about these Valeska boys! Rings a bell. They’re so interested in me! Not that I blame them. No one else around here is having any fun. All their moping has to be immensely boring to watch.  _ I’m _ bored just thinking about it. Actually, don’t tell me. I want to find out! Let’s make it an adventure! They’re already stalking us, might as well make it fun for both parties. Hope they like souffle. Jonny, you know how to make souffle right? Better learn, because I sure as hell can’t. You sent the tickets right? Good. Blank an’ everything? Maybe that was too misleading. No. It’s perfect. It’s going to be perfect. They’ll get it. And if they don’t, clearly I picked wrong. Which would be  _ very _ disappointing for everyone. I think. They may not have the time to be disappointed because they’ll be dismembered. Funny business, disappointment. Dismemberment? Much more entertaining.” _

_ Listening to J when he became so wrapped up in his own head was frustrating, especially when he had a pounding headache as he did now. Jonathan never knew what he was talking about, even when he tried his best to follow along. He wouldn’t bother trying, either, except he got very... _ angry... _ with Jonathan when he thought he wasn’t paying attention.  _

_ “Right, Jonathan?” he asked abruptly, facing the television just as he had ten minutes ago. _

_ “Absolutely, sir.” _


	7. When Glass Breaks

_ (Jerome’s POV) _

 

Yes, he was worried. Sue him. Take him to court. Put him before a judge. Give him a defense attorney. Make the prosecution drag him up to the stand. Have the prosecuting lawyer stare him down, threaten him, grab him by his collar, and...he’s getting off topic. The point is, Jeremiah was in a bad state, and so yes, Jerome was slightly concerned. He needed him able bodied, after all.

To his brother’s credit, he didn’t complain. In fact, he told Jerome everything that had transpired while he’d been upstairs through short staccato sentences, including the insignificant little tidbit about Bruce running around Gotham making charity donations to the Green Zone. 

“Okay, so there’s two possible explanations for that,” he said as he drove like...well, like a maniac, disregarding any notion of street rules or pedestrian safety. The city was in a state of emergency; it didn’t exactly matter how he drove. “Either Bruce got incredibly good at cosmetology real fast, or someone is pretending to be him.”

“The second option seems unlikely given the fact that everyone in this damn town knows Bruce Wayne on sight. Especially if he interacts frequently with Detective Gordon; he’s known him since he was twelve.” Jeremiah’s speech hitched as Jerome ran over a trash can.

“Oops, sorry. Maybe Strange cloned him,” Jerome offered, grinning. “Moral question, would you fuck your own clone?” Honestly, at this point, he was just trying to keep his brother’s mind off the hole in his arm.

“No, I absolutely would not. That’s like fucking your twin-” he stopped speaking abruptly. “You get it.”

Jerome cackled. “I don’t think I do! I would definitely fuck a clone of myself, are you kidding? Then I’d get to find out exactly how good I am in bed, as well as what I need to improve on. What, you wouldn’t fuck your twin?” God, he loved getting that indignant spluttering reaction from him. Jerome himself had no concept of awkwardness, and therefore he could just enjoy tormenting Jeremiah without regret. Again, just keeping him occupied. Besides it was always fun learning a bit more about Miah’s psyche.

“Since my twin is an utter moron and has the emotional capacity of a corrupt psychiatrist, no, I would not. Besides, my twin was also once a dead body, so I’d be ticking the incest and necrophilia boxes at the same time. Which leads me to a firm denial of the invitation.”

“I would like to just as firmly establish that my question was not an invitation. Although, it’s also important to note that necrophilia is much worse than incest, and I’m no longer dead.”

Jeremiah snorted. “Necrophilia is  _ not _ worse than incest, thank you for your opinion, though. It’s a dead body, what’s it going to do, call the cops?”

“Okay but incest is easier. You don’t have to go through all the trouble of hunting down a body, your mom hand-delivered one to your door.”

“Certainly, I suppose, but one must consider the moral repercussions.” The debate seemed to have gotten Jeremiah’s mind off his injury. Now he was fully engaged in proving his point. Good, that was Jerome’s intention. “The entire familial balance is upset when a pair of relatives engage in such acts. After you’re done having sex with the body, you just button your pants and leave. No questions asked later, no expectations that it’s going to happen again.”

“Yes, except imagine the diseases you could get by sticking it in a corpse! I think an important thing to establish is a.) how long the body has been dead and b.) where you found it.”

“I’d say it’s acceptable if it’s rather fresh and has not yet been moved to a morgue. Theoretically.”

“Can you get any fresher than someone that’s, oh I don’t know,  _ alive _ ?”

“Well, yes, but they’re  _ your sibling! _ ”

“At least a sibling can consent. And besides, who said we were talking about siblings?”

“You’re not suggesting we fuck our mother.”

“This is theoretical, thank you. All I’m saying is, a dead body can’t consent, and that’s the one rule of sex. You’re raping someone, Miah. That’s rape.”

“They’re no longer a person after they’ve died. At that point it’s simply a vessel.”

“Alright, different reason then. Why rape-I mean, engage in sexual intercourse with an unresponsive bit of flesh? Where’s the fun in that? Imagine the absolutely vivacious banging one could take part in while you’re wasting your time with a corpse.”

“I’d like to re-emphasize, ‘vivacious banging’  _ with your family member _ .”

“Depending on who you engage with, all the  _ members _ involved would be family members.”

“My answer is still no, Jerome. I’m not fucking you.”

“Still not asking, but okay. Take me out of the equation completely. What if…” he paused to think for a moment. “What if Bruce was your brother? Would you choose to fuck a dead body over him?”

The question caught Jeremiah off guard. “I-that’s...he’s not. I mean, from a practical standpoint, I would choose him over a corpse. However, I don’t approve of...I mean, it’s not relevant. From the perspective of seeking enjoyment, yes. But it would never come up. That’s absurd.”

“Miah, this is theoretical,” he chastised. “Bruce as your brother, dead body, or me as your not-brother.”

“I thought you were taking yourself out of the equation,” Jeremiah reminded him, sounding almost anxious.

“Just makin’ sure you were payin’ attention. C’mon, we’re almost there. Answer the question. And no, I’m not an option.”

“Fine. Bruce. I would pick Bruce. You already knew that. What a waste of time and dignity,” he grumbled.

Jerome pressed his foot to the gas pedal, trying to get them there sooner without completely destroying the truck. “So I win,” he stated happily.

“Your victory is purely circumstantial.”

“Doesn’t matter, it kept you occupied, at least.” Jerome braked rather suddenly and pushed his door open. Dashing to the other side of the car, he tugged on Jeremiah’s door as well. “We’re here. Are you going to be a good boy and stay in the car while I drag Ozzy up to Barbara?”

Jeremiah sat up rather stiffly, hand pressed against his wound. “I’d like to help. Besides, what if she gets her red talons on the ex-mayor and then decides to change her mind?”

“Then we’d be prepared because you’d already be in the truck, so we could just drive away.”

“With an eighth of a tank of gas?”

He shrugged. “It’s better than nothing. I’d prefer to have a backup plan, if you don’t mind.” Jeremiah had to recognize that staying there was the better option, both for his health and as a failsafe.

Sighing, he responded, “Alright, yes, I’ll remain here. But if you’re not back in fifteen minutes, I’ll assume something has gone horribly wrong and leave without you.”

Jerome gasped in disbelief. “You wouldn’t come to my rescue?”

“If you need my help, then death must have significantly decreased your talents.”

“Ouch. Rude. Maybe I just want a knight in shining armor.”

“Well I’m an engineer in a sparkling suit. You’re clearly looking in the wrong place.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going now.” Shutting the door on another one of Jeremiah’s dramatic sighs, he went around the back and pulled Oswald out. He was still breathing, which was a plus. Jerome was afraid the punch to his jaw had done permanent damage. Although, the old man  _ did _ deserve it. He’d lunged at him from the floor of the bedroom and bitten him, so, technically, it was all in self defense.

Speaking of, he’d forgotten his own injury in light of the bullet that tore through Jeremiah’s arm. A sharp, stinging pain throbbed at his neck as he thought of it. Shrugging to himself, he whistled as he hauled Oswald through the doors of the building and up the elevator.

At least a group of assassins didn’t converge on him this time. Barbara was sitting at the bar, moodily sipping another cocktail. Jerome was surprised the bar was still stocked with booze since she drank it like water.

“Honey, I’m home!” he called, gleeful voice resounding throughout the club. 

Barbara just looked over her shoulder at him, rolling her eyes. “It’s about time. I was starting to think you’d gone back on your word.”

“What kind of backstabbing maniac do you take me for?” he grinned.

“A very experienced one. Give him to me.” She gestured for Jerome to bring Oswald to her. Instead he chose to dump him on the floor.

“If you want him, get him yourself. I did what you asked. Your turn.”

“Someone’s getting feisty,” Barbara said, eyebrows raised.

Smile dropping slowly, he responded, “I’m needed elsewhere. Now. So if we could hurry this little exchange up, I’d be real grateful.”

Placing a hand on her hip, she sauntered back to the bar and pulled a canister of gasoline from behind it.

Taking it from her, he said, “Thanks, darlin’. Any chance you got a washcloth and a bottle of ibuprofen back there too?”

“My, my. Something dreadful must have happened to that pale freak of a sibling of yours. I noticed he didn’t come up here with you.”

“Oswald didn’t exactly want to come quietly. Miah got the recoil of his temper in the form of a bullet through the bicep.” Jerome caught the roll of bandages she tossed him along with an unmarked bottle. “If these are cyanide capsules, I know a brunette who will be incredibly disappointed.”

She gave him one her signature looks of impudence. “I’m not gonna kill him. Not right now at least. Reunification with the mainland is long overdue, and I feel like you two are gonna play a role in that. If you want to get that wound actually treated, though, I would seek out Doc Thompkins in the Narrows. You’re heading that way, anyways.”

“Doc Thompkins as in Doctor Leslie Thompkins? As in Lee Thompkins, Jimbo’s one true love?”

Barbara set her jaw, apparently annoyed with his description. “Yeah. That Doc Thompkins. She’s got a clinic set up. I’ll write down the address for you. Why she put it back in the Narrows, I have no idea. Kinda inconvenient for everyone in the Green Zone which is on, you know, the opposite side of town. But whatever floats Her Majesty’s twenty pound ego, am I right?”

“I’m sensing some aggression,” he noted, taking the slip of paper she passed him. “Also, I’m gonna need like fifteen more of these.” Jerome shook the canister as he spoke.  
“Lelia already carried them downstairs. I just kept that one here so you wouldn’t think I lied to you.” She flashed him a sickeningly sweet smile, returning to her drink.

“Well, thanks for everything Babs, hope you work out your disastrous love triangle so the rest of us can finally hear about anything else, and maybe I’ll see you around.” Jerome prodded Oswald with his foot. “It might be awhile before he wakes up.”

“Oh, he’ll wake up when I want him to,” she purred. “See ya around, ginger.”

When he got back down to the truck, he saw the same woman who’d assaulted them earlier filling it with fuel while Jeremiah leaned against the vehicle and watched, eyes filled with suspicion.

“Afraid she’ll hijack it?” he inquired as he approached.

“Afraid it might explode,” Jeremiah replied.

Lelia glanced up at him. “It is done.” Without another word, she turned around and headed back into Sirens.

“Thank you!” Jerome called to her retreating figure. Elbowing his brother’s good side, he said, “Where are your manners? Thank the kind lady.”

“She’s already inside. We should go.”

“Wait, Miah,” he caught his working arm before he could get back in the truck. “Bandages and painkillers.” Jeremiah took the items from him almost reluctantly. “I’m not sure if the ibuprofen is actually ibuprofen, so I guess that’s a gamble you can take if you want, but I know Barbara always keeps the stuff around. I’d wager that it’s fine. Give me your right arm; I’ll wrap it.”

“I’m perfectly capable of-”

“Yes, yes, you’re ‘perfectly capable’ of lots of things. Now hush and let your big brother tend to your injuries.”

Resigning himself to the assistance Jerome was so kindly offering, Jeremiah huffed, “We’re twins. You’re not my big brother. And technically, since you died and skipped a year, I’m older.”

“Shh, irrelevant opinions.” He gently slipped his brother’s blood-stained suit jacket off his arm, ignoring his comments about how age was not a matter of opinion. “We’ll take you to a real doctor on our way to find Victor. Apparently Lee Thompkins is camped out in the Narrows.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure she’d love to see  _ you _ ,” Jeremiah muttered, steady voice tinged with sarcasm.

Gripping his shirt, Jerome informed him, “I’m gonna have to tear this.” Jeremiah bit his painted lip and nodded. Apparently, he was more attached to the elegant shirt than his actual arm. Typical; his twin had always cared more about material things than people. Ripping the fabric, he pressed a wad of gauze to the exposed wound, wrapping it around his arm tightly before severing the bandage from the roll. Jerome tucked the end in to hold it in place. “Take two of those,” he motioned to the pills. “That’s all I can do for you right now.”

He went around the other side of the truck, ears picking up a faint, “Thank you,” that he barely caught.

“What was that?” Jerome asked when both of them were in the vehicle.

“What was what?” Jeremiah responded, examining his eyebrows in the rearview mirror.

“Nothing. Guess I’m just hearing things. Wouldn’t be the first time. Oh, and,” he turned the mirror away from his brother, causing him to pout, “I need this.”

 

**…**

Twenty minutes later, they were weaving their way through the alleys of the Narrows. Jerome had long since flicked the headlights off, fearing unwanted attention from the gangs prowling the streets. They had gotten to the far side of the island in record time, what with the roads being utterly void of other drivers. He supposed the lack of traffic was perhaps the best outcome of the city’s predicament.

“This was a mistake,” Jeremiah repeated for the third time since they’d left Barbara’s club.

“Nonsense, look,” Jerome pointed to a tall, dark building. “That’s the address she gave me.”

His brother eyed the building doubtfully. “How can you tell?”

“It says so on the side, Miah, that’s how addresses work.”

Jeremiah exhaled loudly. “I  _ know _ how addresses work, you imbecile. But it’s too dark to read the side of the building.”

“No, you just decided that you’re above wearing your glasses nowadays. Your conundrum is self-inflicted. I, however, have perfect vision, and I’m qualified to inform you that the address on this slip of paper is the same as that one. Besides, I’m in no hurry to get inside. We could sit here and debate this all day. It’s your arm, not mine.”

Door already shoved open, Jeremiah said, “Let’s go, then. Hurry up.”

Oh yes, as if he were the one that had spent the entire car ride whining about their imminent death as a mixed result of Jerome’s driving and the people who shot at the truck from the sidewalks, and then wasted four minutes contemplating whether or not the address was correct. But no, Jerome was the slow one.

“Alright, princess, I’m coming.” He shook his head in exasperation, catching up to him at the entrance.

Before they could push through the blown-in glass doorframe, a sharp voice commanded from behind the pair, “Not another step, or I’ll splatter both of your brains on the pavement.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I haven't posted for this fic in awhile. I was ensuring that I had a plan for where I want the story to go, because I don't want to make the same mistakes I did with its predecessor. With any luck, some forethought may work out for me.
> 
> Oh and that questionable three-page debate is entirely up for interpretation. Take it how you will.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I know it wasn't super long, but the next one should be rather lengthy to compensate. Feel free to leave any reviews, comments, and criticisms; I love them all equally. Thanks for reading!
> 
> (Edit: I totally spaced tagging this earlier but the car ride conversation is inspired from a post by @flas on tumblr, thank you!)


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